


Asylum

by VanLudwig



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Implications of torture, M/M, Political Shenanigans, Post-War Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanLudwig/pseuds/VanLudwig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HIATUS</p><p>The Second Wizarding War was fought to ensure the equality of wizards regardless of bloodlines. When that fails to be the case in an unexpected reversal of roles, it appears that The Great Hero Harry Potter must come out of retirement in order to set the people straight. When the oppressors become the oppressed, bitter rivals must become partners to set an example. And who better to set that example than The Chosen One and The Prince of Slytherin?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Poetry and Pessimism

They look like flowers, Draco decides. Soft rose petals made with the careful stroke of a paint brush, curling in at the edges and drifting away as the deep, red color mixes with the murky water, diluting it yet doing nothing to detract from its terrific beauty. It runs like a river, flowing away from him towards unimaginable places. Logically, Draco knows the river’s path only extends to the walls and then pools there, and furthermore his river fans out long before it has time to meets its end, but he likes to believe that it retains its shape, filled with purpose and direction, up until it meets the wall, at which point it breaks apart like the top of the jet of water that spouts from the fountain in the foyer. When he was just a boy, Draco believed that it was a wishing fountain, and he would flip small coins into it as he repeated his desires with earnest silently in his mind. Thinking about this distracts his mind from the river for a few precious seconds, but it cannot last - unlike the petals blooming outwards from beneath him, which seem to be endless.

Like the curling of the petals, Draco’s world is curling in at the edges now. He cannot focus on anything in his periphery anymore, and so he looks straight ahead at his companion, whom he has not thought of since his observations took a turn for the poetic. Goyle. Truly his only friend left in the world, though it is debatable at this point whether or not he really is still part of the world. Not that it particularly matters to Draco t this point whether or not his friend is alive; he desperately needs the company, and Goyle was never really too lively in life, either. Goyle does not have any rose petals of his own, and this is how Draco concludes that he is indeed dead. Draco struggles to remember how long ago his friend’s last petal wilted, but he cannot. It is the price of art, he concludes, to have his memory impaired so. That and the pain, but he can no longer remember that, either. All that remains for Draco is his art, his precious rose petals that burst from their stem at his side. It is he that gives them life, his life. Though they are not bursting anymore, Draco amends; they appear in more of a trickle now. He returns to his river metaphor and observes the motion of his creek through an increasingly foggy view.

He should have died long ago. A person cannot create such beautiful and terrible art and still live himself. Draco prefers to think of it now not as losing blood but creating something. It has helped him thus far on his – unfairly lengthy, if he had any room to complain – trip towards death. After all, something surely must come of his suffering; it cannot all be in vain. He would puzzle further over the matter if he had the mental capacity. He doesn’t, so he doesn’t. All he does is feel. Feel the cold creeping in around his heart, the only place chill hasn’t yet invaded. Feel the water he is sitting in seep through his clothes and his skin and his fat and his muscles and all the way into the marrow of his bones. Feel the absence of moving air, so distinct yet utterly indescribable. Feel the sorrow and the acceptance.

If Draco still had his wits about him, he would be completely horrified with himself. There is no beauty in death. Death is cold and ugly and despicable. Deplorable just as he is deplorable for failing to conquer it. There is beauty in triumph, something he has failed to achieve time and time again. Draco has not triumphed. He has lost the day, not seized it. Once again, he has failed to overcome the obstacle. This time, however, there is no Mother to reassure him, no Father to shield him. When faced with accepting the consequences of his own failure, it literally kills him. How typical, how pathetic, how very Draco of him. Even his wallowing, both figuratively and literally, is another mark against him, bringing him further away from the person he’d like to be and towards the person he actually is. Up until this point in Draco’s life, he’d had certain ideals about how he should carry himself and live his life – traits befitting someone of the Malfoy family line. Suave and in command of every situation he enters. Earnest yet refined and restrained, with a professional air about his every move. Calculating and cool and cunning, brave and bold and certainly better than the rest. Lord knows Draco isn’t that man, he knows that now. In his entire life, he had only ever met one man who had come close to attaining his ideals. Ironic, he had found it, that even his own Father did not possess all of the traits that Draco assigned to his family. Perhaps he was too pompous in life, too focused on what he wanted to be rather than what he was. Draco takes it as a sign that he really is dying that he has begun to think of himself in the past tense. He reminds himself not to die, that his art needs him. It is too late, however. It had always been dim in the dungeon, but now it is pitch black, and Draco’s head is really too heavy for him to continue holding up on his own. He wishes to ponder the irony of this statement also, but it has already been established that it is too late to do so. He wishes to compare his struggle to remain conscious as a tug-of-war of sorts with Death, but he is simply too tired, and it is quite frankly too late to do that, either. Now should be the moment where he thinks something profound and meaningful and possibly even states a great truth about the world, but in his dying moment, all Draco can comprehend is how utterly exhausted and defeated he feels about the whole ordeal, and so he simply dies.

* * *

“Are you certain of that, Professor?” Harry Potter asked dubiously, wand in one hand and holding his hip in the other, the picture of sassy disbelief.

“Quite certain, Professor,” Minerva McGonagall replied snappishly, hands resting on the edge of the desk she was leaning over to stare him down. “The weather is simply too foul for the scheduled Quidditch match to take place, and I refuse to allow you to heckle the students into playing regardless.”

“Back in my day, Professor, I played on a pitch in the pouring rain while Dementors patrolled the grounds!” Harry announced with great irritation, “Not one person stepped up to stop that one, and if I may refresh your memory, no one was injured during that match.”

“Potter.” McGonagall placed a hand delicately to the bridge of her nose, eyes narrowed at him with annoyance. “If I may refresh yours, you fell from your broom and nearly died during that match,” she articulated icily.

Harry bristled. “No one was seriously injured, then. Besides, the students could stand to build some character. The teams don’t know the meaning of hard work anymore; quite frankly, I am shocked at the work ethics I have seen displayed by these kids,” he explained with a hint of bitterness in his voice. It was true; he had quit professional playing after only a few short years in order to come back and join the teaching staff at Hogwarts, and he had been livid to find out that no one was coaching Quidditch anymore. There were no Weasleys or Woods or Bells – hell, even any Flints - on the pitch anymore. The program had really gone downhill in the aftermath of the war. “No one can fly worth a damn anymore, Professor. You and I both know it. How can we restore Hogwarts’ Quidditch teams to their former glories if no one grows a backbone?”

McGonagall sighed deeply and heavily, levelling Harry with an unamused stare. “This is precisely why we cannot allow play today. None of the students knows how to play at an advanced enough level to even give them a fighting chance out there.” She began to look sympathetic at this point. “Potter, I know you are disappointed, but you cannot simply throw them into danger and expect them to excel. They aren’t you. They aren’t Weasley or Granger, either.”

Harry shook his head. “And they never will be if we baby them.”

“Dismissed, Potter. Thank you for your suggestions, but I have made my decision,” McGonagall stated simply, sounding worn down but not defeated.

“Understood, Professor,” was Harry’s reply as he turned on his heel and headed through the portrait of her office, muttering to himself all the while.

During his brief stint in professional Quidditch, he found himself missing the magic, for lack of a better description. He missed practicing his spells, dueling with his mates, and learning new techniques and combinations to use in battle - not that battle happened very often anymore. After the war ended, Harry had figured that he’d had enough of that life, figured he was tired of fighting. So when he was approached by the Ministry with an offer of becoming an Auror, he politely declined and instead joined Puddlemere United as their Seeker. Which was more fun than he’d ever had in his entire life. Harry quickly found out that he was suited to the life of a Quidditch star, which came as a surprise both to himself and to his friends. Unlike being the Savior of the World, he had confidence in his Seeker abilities and knew that, if he failed to do something right, the lives of thousands didn’t hang in the balance. He could still do something important, be a part of a team, and know that it was all essentially for fun. That was a refreshing feeling, and so he welcomed his new form of fame with open arms. The witches and wizards of the magical community welcomed the angles they saw of Harry under his new spotlight, as well. His public image had greatly improved from his days as Undesirable Number One.

Still, that only lasted about as long as it took for Harry to get homesick. He missed living at Hogwarts, missed the paintings and the classrooms and the corridors – missed the way the air was tinged with magic. Harry even missed those blasted trick staircases he always seemed to get tripped up by. After coming from nothing to the most perfect place in the world and calling it home, it was hard to leave the place behind after graduation. And so he applied for a position on the staff at Hogwarts as the flying instructor. Naturally, when word got out that Mr. Harry Potter was applying for a teaching position, it was assumed that he would be fulfilling the role of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. The school board voted him in without even realizing that he hadn’t applied for the post.

When Harry finally managed to march himself all the way back to his office – located in a tower not too far from the one housing the Gryffindors – the rain had begun to come down harder. Harry worried idly that Hagrid’s new pumpkins would be flooded right out of their patch. Actually, he was thinking about what to do about teaching his flying lessons – he thought about this subject constantly. Only those students who were on teams could take lessons with him. New magical sports had been introduced to the school in recent years, and Quidditch became something like an elite club only for those who already had a good enough grasp of the game to be recognized by the captains. After all, the only way for a new student to learn to fly was to be put on the reserve team by a Quidditch captain in order to have them qualify for the lessons. Harry thought it was a damn shame; people coming from non-magical families would have a significantly harder time learning under the new rules. Even after the horror and bloodshed of the war, prejudice still had its way of cropping up, it seemed. Just the other day, Harry had a little girl approach him in the halls, meekly asking if she could have a private lesson. Harry guiltily declined her – his schedule was booked up with all of the regular lessons plus teaching Defense classes.

Finally shut in to his office for the evening, Harry sat down to his desk and looked over his lesson plans for the following day. He would start his morning off at four with his exercise regimen, the only time of the day he truly called his own, until he had to appear in the Great Hall for breakfast at eight sharp. Then, it was off to teaching basic blocking spells to first and second years, lunch with Hagrid, offensive spells with the fourth and fifth years, dispelling with the thirds and the seconds again, dinner in the Great Hall, and ending his day with lessons on the Dark Arts with the sixth and seventh years. McGonagall was a conservative headmistress, to be sure, but after the horrors that had occurred on school property and around the world during the war, it just wasn’t practical to shield young witches and wizards from potentially life-saving knowledge – namely, an understanding of Dark Arts. Part of the reason why the Ministry hadn’t been able to stand up to Voldemort’s armies the way they needed to was because Voldemort’s armies were using magic no one knew how to defend against, let alone use themselves. Therefore, it had been integrated into the curriculum, though Harry wasn’t sure how successfully. His magical training, while far superior to most, was still not well-rounded enough for him to teach Dark magic. He could scratch the surface, sure, but Harry was nothing if not a thorough teacher. It was the only hesitation he held onto before accepting the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching position, the reason he had initially not applied.

A truly good teacher of Dark magic would ideally have grown up around it, for a lot of things considered Dark are, in fact, simply old magic practiced only by pureblood wizarding families preserving the old way. Harry by no means considered himself prejudiced against muggle-borns and mixed families, but he couldn’t deny that the traditions kept by the old families ensured a more powerful, pure brand of magic. The only problem with that was the only witches and wizards who would know were currently either dead or feigning ignorance in fear of persecution.

Harry waved his wand, transfiguring a nearby paperweight into a teacup and then nonverbally casting a spell to make hot water pour from the tip of his wand into the cup. A neat trick he had picked up on one of his trips to the Burrow, and he desperately needed some tea after the day he’d just been through. Honestly, though, it had been stressful ever since he had started teaching. With the war over, witches and wizards all over who had dropped out of school were coming back, parents were sending children that had been prevented from being enrolled in the first place, and transfers coming in from Norway who had been previously taught at Durmstrang. The school had acquired such a stigma as being a school for Dark wizards that it had been closed and its students dispersed to other institutions, Hogwarts being a popular choice for the ex-Durmstrangers. What all this meant, in a nutshell, was that the school was bursting at the seams with students. They’d even had to expand the dormitories to accommodate all of the new students. More students, unfortunately, meant more conflicts, especially with anti-pureblood sentiments running so high.

A sudden knock at his door startled Harry, causing him to jerk his elbow and spill hot water all over his desk. He dried it with a hasty swish of his wand, making his papers fly everywhere. Another swish of holly and phoenix feather sorted them to rights again, and at the top of his arc he flicked his wrist, flinging the door open wide to reveal none other than Luna Lovegood, who drifted through his doorway with a breezy hello.

“Hello, Luna,” Harry greeted her, flicking the door shut again, gently this time. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you,” Luna replied, setting herself down in one of the plushy chairs near his fireplace, “Lovely weather this evening, isn’t it?”

“Um, no, not really,” Harry replied carefully, “Have you looked outside, Luna? It’s pouring.”

“Yes, I know,” was Luna’s answer, as if this made perfect sense to her. Which it probably did, but Harry was completely lost, as he usually was when it came to Luna.

“So,” Harry continued, sitting down next to Luna with his teacup, “How are things going with you?”

“Wonderful, as always,” she stated dreamily, hand reaching up to play with a strand of curly blonde hair, “Hagrid and I are going on a little trip into the Forest later to look for potions ingredients. I’m to invite you along, if you care to join us.” She said all of this in the same breath, rushing her sentence towards the end. Luna always spoke that way – lazily, but all at once.

“Tell him thank you, but I’m expecting the Minister to Floo me later, so I ought to stay put and wait for him,” Harry offered with a small shrug of his shoulders. He sipped at his tea a moment before continuing. “As if I don’t have enough to deal with here, I received a note today from the Ministry that they would be setting up a secure line to my fireplace for later in the evening. It all sounds very important and invasive.”

“Once a savior, always a savior,” Luna offered, putting a hand on her friends shoulder.

“Don’t get me wrong here, Luna, I am happy to help with the relief effort in any way I’m able,” Harry tried, but it sounded like such a lie to his own ears that he couldn’t help but chuckle a bit. “I’m sorry, Luna. I don’t quite know how I feel about it, honestly.”

“You don’t owe anyone anything, Harry,” Luna advised, suddenly serious, “Just because you can doesn’t mean you must.”

Harry didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he sipped at his tea again, meeting his friend’s gaze questioningly in the hopes that she would clarify. When no explanation was forthcoming, Harry began to shift uncomfortably. “No offense, Luna, but what?”

“I have to be going now, Harry,” Luna replied as if that was a perfectly natural answer to his question. As she drifted back out his door, she called behind her, “Do take care!”

Harry sat dumbfounded. “Sure thing,” he managed finally, a few seconds too late.

Just as he was draining the cold dregs from the bottom of his teacup, the fireplace burst to life in a vibrant emerald hue. Harry jumped at the sudden action, sending his cup sailing towards the mantle with a jerk of his arm. He quickly slowed it with magic and ran to catch it, catching the handle with the tips of his fingers. Setting it down gently next to him as he kneeled on the hearth, Harry peered into the flames. “Kingsley?”

The image of Kingsley Shacklebolt’s head materialized, magical flames licking at his skin. “Evening, Potter.”

Harry at once could tell that the Minister was bearing bad news. News Harry wouldn’t like. He leaned in a bit closer. “What’s happened, Kingsley?”

“The raid in Bordeaux, as you are most likely aware, began on schedule last night.”

Harry nodded that, yes, he had heard through Ron about the Auror raid on the French town. Suspicious activities of anti-pureblood radicals had drawn Ministry attention over the past fortnight – a group that referred to themselves as The Sympathetics – and their public demonstrations had turned violent quickly, prompting the Aurors into mobilizing on them. Their main base of operations was the first place to have been searched, with forces spreading out to the entire city afterwards to search for illegal or otherwise suspicious activity. The Ministry had a zero tolerance policy towards prejudice of any kind nowadays, but some members of the wizarding community could not seem to grasp that oppressing purebloods was petty revenge, not equality.

“The actions of the rebels turned out to be more severe than we had imagined. A search of the estate turned up bodies, Potter,” Kingsley reported gravely, “They had been torturing purebloods in their cellars.”

“Gods,” Harry swore, stomach turning at the thought. Didn’t these extremists see they were becoming no better than the purebloods they hated so vehemently? “That’s awful.”

“There was one survivor, but it is still uncertain whether or not that will remain the case. He is currently being treated at St. Mungo’s. If he pulls through, we will need somewhere safe to house him.” The Minister looked pointedly around Harry’s office.

Harry quirked one eyebrow. “I suppose this is where I fit in?”

Kingsley nodded once. “He was schooled at Hogwarts and has no surviving family. It is the only remaining place for him where we can ensure him safety as well as keep him under a watchful eye. I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you how precious a resource this man will be in providing us with information on the rebels, not to mention his testimony will be extremely valuable in convicting the perpetrators once they are caught.”

Harry sighed, looking earnestly into Kingsley’s eyes. “Have you spoken to McGonagall about him?”

“I have,” Kingsley confirmed with a slight inclination of his head, “She suggested that, when he is feeling well enough again, it might be good for him to assist you with your teaching duties.”

“Who exactly are we speaking of, Kingsley?” Harry asked in a tone he hoped sounded level. He was getting a bit exasperated that he hadn’t been given a name yet.

Kingsley merely looked uncomfortable at his question. “Now, Potter…,” he began.

“It won’t affect my decision, Minister,” Harry assured him quickly, “The poor bastard deserves asylum, and we could use anything he knows to help prevent this from happening again.”

“Right you are, Potter,” Kingsley agreed, looking relieved. “I’m sure your help will be much appreciated by Mr. Draco Malfoy.”

Oh.


	2. Draco's Runaway Mouth

The fire sprung to life in Harry’s office, the green flames licking the brick walls and illuminating the previously dark room with an otherworldly glow. Harry stood attentively before the flames, holding his breath with nervous anticipation. It had taken St. Mungo’s two weeks to patch Malfoy up, but they had finally deemed him well enough for Floo travel. Now, Harry waited patiently, having cancelled all of his Quidditch lessons for the evening so that he could help Malfoy make the transition from the hospital to Hogwarts.

Once the initial shock had worn off – playing host to Draco Malfoy of all people! – Harry had to admit that he was a little excited at the prospect of seeing his childhood rival again. So much had changed in the decade preceding the war. Harry was curious to see what Malfoy was like now. He hoped that the man had softened a little around the edges, at least. Back at school, Harry had always had an odd fascination with Malfoy. Initially, it had been a mere childish dislike. After he had seen him fail to kill Dumbledore, his eyes had been opened up to a whole new aspect of Malfoy. He had been human after all, and he had protected Harry at Malfoy Manor. Then, there was the matter off the Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement. It wasn’t a lot, and it didn’t forgive him of his many faults and crimes, but Harry could hope for change.

Kingsley appeared in the fireplace first. He stepped out onto the hearth with his shoulders squared, all business as he shook Harry’s hand. Next came a Healer from St. Mungo’s, dressed in a crisp, white uniform and carrying a black leather bag. And then the man himself. Malfoy stepped out of the fireplace, green flames kissing the hem of the thick, black robe he wore drawn tightly around him like admirers come to worship him. He held his tall, wiry frame carefully upright, hyperconscious of Harry’s gaze upon him. Harry stared unabashedly. On first entrance, Malfoy appeared to be quite his usual self. His blond head was tilted upwards, chin out and proud face pinched in obvious discomfort. It was that little detail, the smallest of pained expressions shown by pursed lips that gave him away. He was gaunt, his face pallid and his hands shaking ever so slightly as he took the black bag from the Healer, who had been watching him like a hawk. His eyes, when he glanced at Harry, seemed hollow and unfocused. He turned to Kingsley with measured slowness, and when he spoke, his voice was so quiet that it startled Harry.

“Thank you for all of your help,” Malfoy murmured, offering his trembling hand to Kingsley, “You’ll keep in contact, I trust?”

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy,” Kingsley agreed, taking Malfoy’s hand, “If any new information comes to light, the Ministry will be in contact.”

“Good.”

For all of his fragility, that had actually sounded like a dismissal. Kingsley treated it as such and turned to Harry. “The Ministry would like to thank you again, Potter, for your compliance with this matter,” he said very seriously, then cracked a smile, “Take care, alright? Don’t bring the castle down.”

Harry smiled back. “Alright, Kingsley.”

Kingsley stepped into the fire and was whisked away, followed shortly by the Healer. Harry focused on Malfoy fully now, perturbed slightly to find that Malfoy was staring back intensely. “Er.” Harry felt awkward. What was he supposed to say? “Hello, Malfoy.”

“Hello, Potter,” Malfoy returned, inclining his head in a graceful gesture, “I suppose this is the part where we start fighting, yes?”

Harry grinned at Malfoy’s little joke. “They expect our legendary rivalry to bring the castle down, Malfoy. Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

A slight upturn of his mouth was the only indication that Malfoy had found his remark funny. “Yes, well. If it’s alright by you, I’d like to save that for another time. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Harry repeated, at a loss. It was strange, making small talk with Malfoy. It felt surreal and just a little bit false. But here he was, standing in the middle of his office with the man who had once been his bitter enemy. And he had no idea how to act.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, interrupting his thoughts, “I’d like to be shown to my room now.”

“Oh, right.” Harry mentally berated himself. Malfoy looked awful, and he’d no doubt had a long day. He moved to stand in front of the fireplace and focused his attention above it, where a great painting of an elderly woman hung. “Wildfire Whiz-bangs,” he announced to it. The woman in the painting rolled her eyes at him, but the portrait opened up nonetheless. Harry turned and smiled sheepishly at Malfoy. “Sorry it’s so high up.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, frowning. “I can manage.”

One awkward moment later and Harry was boosting a thoroughly embarrassed Malfoy up through the portrait hole, pulling himself up afterwards. Malfoy continued walking through the passageway, having to bow his head a little to keep from bumping it on the ceiling. Harry followed him, moving more swiftly to close the distance between them as they stepped out into a little sitting room. It looked similar to the Gryffindor common room, with a few overstuffed velvet armchairs and a plush rug spread out in front of a grand fireplace, larger than the one in Harry’s office. It was simpler, though, with large, roughly cut stones and a brick hearth. The fire in the grate was all ashes, as Harry hadn’t been in this room all day. Great tapestries depicting various tales of famous Gryffindors adorned the walls. Malfoy surveyed this all with a slight curl of his lip, remaining silent.

Harry pointed to a door on the right. “Your room is through there. Do you need me to help you get settled?”

Malfoy turned sharply to face him. His face showed mild displeasure, but his voice held venom. “I am quite competent enough for the menial task of sorting my belongings, Potter.”

Harry raised his hands in a placating gesture, eyebrows shooting up to disappear beneath his fringe. “Easy, Malfoy. I didn’t mean to offend you. Just wanted to be a good host.”

“Would you like to tuck me in as well?” Malfoy spat, eyes blazing anger, “No, thank you, Chosen One, but I do not need to be saved tonight.”

With that, he marched over to the door and yanked it almost off of its hinges, banging it shut behind him. Harry stared after him incredulously. Well, that was certainly rude and spontaneous. He heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, crossing the room to a door on the adjacent side, where his own bedroom was located. He would reserve his judgment of Malfoy for now, chalk his rudeness up to displaced emotions. Maybe if he gave the man time, Harry thought, things would get better. He really felt that Malfoy needed someone to talk to.

* * *

  
As soon as Draco stepped into the room that was to be his for the duration of his stay, all of his anger melted away. The walls had been decorated with ornate green and silver tapestries, the floors covered by thick rugs to keep the chill of the stone out of your feet. The fireplace in this room was smaller and made from precisely cut squares of dark stone, giving it a polished look. A large loveseat sat before it, made from what appeared to be a dark leather. Draco crossed the room, placing his bag down on the emerald green sheets of the enormous sleigh bed, sinking down next to it.

He felt like a scoundrel. Guilt crept into his heart and he sunk his head into his hands. Potter had done all of this for him. He could have outfitted the room in stalwart Gryffindor tackiness, in keeping with the theme of the common room. In fact, that was entirely what Draco had been expecting after the maroon and gold monstrosity that was the lounge. This, though. This was exactly to his tastes. Just like his old rooms in the dungeons of Hogwarts. Similar enough to his quarters at the Manor. He smoothed a wrinkle in the blanket with his hand. The material felt expensive. Why would Potter go to such lengths for him? He certainly had no motivation to. He was a traitor to both sides. He couldn’t kill Dumbledore, he couldn’t defy the Death Eaters, and he couldn’t even manage to bleed out in a cellar properly. He had half expected the Healers at St. Mungo’s to “accidentally” give him too much medicine and off him that way. For some reason, they hadn’t, and now he was in the care of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and Headmistress Minerva McGonagall once more. This time, though, he had no Crabbe, Goyle, or Parkinson. No friends to play Quidditch with. He had no family to write to and complain about muggle-loving teachers.

No family. Draco let himself fall back slowly onto the bed, his aching muscles sinking into the soft covers. Wasn’t that dandy? The only thing he had ever put stock into as a child was lineage. Sure, he still had a bloodline, a past, ancestors, but he no longer had a family. No one to guide him, look out for him and have his back. Draco was on his own for the first time in his life, and he was perturbed. Not scared, exactly, because he had gone past the point of fear long, long ago. He had tortured people, had been tortured himself. No, Draco Malfoy was not afraid. He was, however, unnerved at the idea of essentially being the last surviving member of the Malfoy family. Hell, he was probably the last surviving Slytherin member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. A black sheep.

But then, Harry Potter was a black sheep, too. He’d been ostracized for most of his school years. Most of the time, it was his celebrity that kept him apart from his classmates, but sometimes it was because of fear and prejudice that he was made to live as a social outcast. They’d called him insane during their fifth year, unhinged, the same way they’d called Albus Dumbledore a lunatic. Draco sighed. He was in an ideal position to befriend Potter, and he completely blew it. Potter was the first real possibility of an ally that had come along for Draco since he had been kidnapped, and he had thrown the offered olive branch straight back into the Chosen One’s face. Of course, he had done so with perfectly good reason. Hating Harry Potter for so long had left scars in Draco’s mind. He saw the man and immediately felt bitterness creep into his heart, saw red blur his vision, heard old arguments playing in his mind. It was no easy task, setting aside all of that. Potter had been Hogwarts’ Golden Boy, and all of the teachers loved him. The teachers ought to have loved Draco – he was smarter. His classmates vied for Harry’s friendship – they should have been begging for connections to the Malfoy family. All Malfoy had been groomed for had been snatched away by the very kind of person he was taught to loathe.

However, circumstances as they were presently left Draco with little choice than to suck it up and ally himself with Potter. Above all else, Malfoys had a keen sense of self-preservation. They take care of their own, take care of themselves first and foremost. And so, Draco decided with another heavy sigh, it would be in his best interests to befriend Potter. Best to let bygones be bygones and hopefully live through this ordeal with whatever dignity he could scrounge up amongst his ruined image.

A few hours later found Draco sitting squarely in the middle of enemy camp, situated on a plush armchair in front of the crackling fire with a mug of strong tea in his hands. He had wrapped a quilt from his bed around his shoulders to ward off the chill of the night. It was just a hunch, but Draco believed in the possibility that Potter still suffered from nightmares – who didn’t, after the war? If that was correct, then Draco knew that Potter would seek him out. He would want human comfort, even if that comfort came from Draco Malfoy. Draco knew because he was the very same way when it came to troubled sleep.

Sure enough, his patience was rewarded a little later when Potter silently sat down in the armchair next to him. Draco leaned forward, taking the extra mug he had prepared and offering it to Potter, who took it without hesitation.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, sipping delicately. His hands were trembling. “You, too?”

Draco merely nodded. He hadn’t had a nightmare, no. He hadn’t even gone to sleep, but it was a convenient enough reason to be up in the middle of the night.

They sat in silence for a few moments, drinking their tea and letting the fire melt away the tension between them. It was relaxing. Draco hadn’t thought he would be so relaxed in Potter’s company, but he supposed that experience could change a man.

“I am sorry for the way I acted earlier,” Draco confessed quietly, “My quarters are perfectly to my liking. Thank you.”

“No need,” Potter replied, eyes fixed on him, “You deserve it. I’m sorry about the Manor.”

“I suppose it was in the paper, then,” Draco deduced, bowing his head slightly.

“Yes,” he replied sympathetically, “If there’s anything I can do for you, please just let me know. I couldn’t bear to lose my home like that. It must be unspeakably awful.”

Draco thought carefully for a moment before realizing that Potter was referring to Hogwarts. It occurred to Draco that he had no idea where else Potter had lived. Surely, he hadn’t lived in the castle? “The Manor is a relic of an era gone-by. I suppose many think of it as a symbol of the Death Eaters and seek to destroy it. Symbol or not, it is my home. It’s a thing I don’t’ believe many people realize.”

Potter nodded, understanding what Draco was saying about him, as well. “Your hands are shaking. Want me to put another log on the fire?” he asked, startling Draco. That wasn’t the question he had predicted Potter would ask next. He looked down at his hands. Sure enough, he was trembling violently.

“Ah, no thank you. It isn’t the cold.” The excuse came tumbling out of his mouth before he quite realized what kind of information he was giving away. “My hands were mangled, you see, and even Healers can only do so much.” He looked at Potter quizzically – lips parted and eyebrows cocked - startled for a moment at his own words. “My apologies, Potter, I did not mean to tell you that.”

Potter moved to kneel in front of him and gently took one of his hands. Draco was alarmed, to say the least. He wanted to jerk his hand away, but they were already beginning to cramp up and ache from the cold. A fact Potter felt the need to point it out. “Are you sure it isn’t the cold?” he asked, rubbing Draco’s knuckles and fingers with careful hands. His callouses felt rough on Draco’s scars, and the sensation felt odd and slightly unpleasant. Draco allowed him to keep doing it. “I can fetch you some mittens, if you’d like,” he continued on, face betraying his horror as he traced Draco’s scars and felt the areas where his bones weren’t connecting quite right.

Draco felt a twitch begin to form in his right eye. “Potter, I am not one of your swooning damsels.” He kept his tone measured and free from most of his malice. Befriend Potter, his thoughts raged, even if he insists on treating you like one of Mother’s doilies. “Perhaps if you let go of my hand, I could use my quilt to warm it.”

Potter apologized and moved away to tend the fire. Draco rubbed his hand idly as he watched Potter throw another log into the blaze. The ghost of his touch still lingered, and it made Draco uneasy how he found himself missing it.

“So, tell me, Chosen One,” Draco quipped as he drew the quilt around himself tighter, “What kind of glorious and noble activities did you get up to after the war?”

Potter turned to give him an amused smile. “Quidditch, Malfoy.”

Malfoy was stunned for a moment. That hadn’t been his prediction at all. “Quidditch Potter?”

“Quidditch, Malfoy,” Harry repeated with a laugh. “After the war, I decided to take a break from fighting Dark Wizards. Let someone else have a turn, eh?”

“How unlike the Famous Harry Potter, so eager to fight the forces of darkness alone and martyr himself for his cause,” Draco parried, smirking at his own joke.

“Well, I thought maybe I’d try being famous for a different reason,” was Potter’s glib reply, “And it was great. Playing pro Quidditch was the first time I’d had real fun in years. I met a lot of great people and I travelled a lot. ‘Course, Ginny wasn’t too happy about that.” He grimaced, briefly captured by the memory. “Well, we’re still friends, anyway. That was years ago.”

“Who’d you play for?” Malfoy asked with a childlike gleam in his eyes. He’d always enjoyed Quidditch. He wasn’t the best player out there – Potter had dashed his hopes of being a Quidditch star – but he knew every play in the book and was an excellent strategist. Watching game after game in box seats, giving Mother and Father a running commentary as he predicted plays and critiqued the coach’s decisions… He realized that Potter was talking again and reigned in his runaway thoughts.

“Puddlemere United,” Potter repeated. He didn’t comment on Draco’s inattentiveness. “They weren’t the first to offer me a position, but I’d always liked the way they flew as a team. It seemed like the natural choice. I stayed with the team for a while, but I missed being at Hogwarts, as strange as it sounds, so I applied to teach here. Now, I’m coaching it. It’s funny, Malfoy, I figured you’d know all of this about me already. Don’t you follow Quidditch in the papers at all?”

Draco frowned, staring at the wall as he answered. He mustn’t give too much away. “After the war, I was too busy for Quidditch.” I had a household to run. “Father never cared for my interest in sports, anyway.” Mother and I were too busy piecing our lives back together to worry about getting the post. “Father didn’t really care for any aspect of living anymore.” Who has time to read the Prophet, anyway? “We cancelled our Prophet subscription because of all the slander they were printing about our family.” Shit. “The wards Mother and I had to put up were too strong for a radio signal to get through.” Shit. Why was he telling Potter everything?! His eyes snapped back to Potter, who was standing by the fireplace still, mouth agape in shock.

“Malfoy, I-”

“You didn’t need to know any of that. I am so sorry. Please excuse me,” Draco enunciated clearly and quickly, shooting up from his seat.

Potter rushed over to him and grabbed his shoulders tightly. Draco cried out in pain and Potter released him like he had been electrocuted. “Malfoy, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you!” His voice sounded desperate. He brought his hands up to clasp the quilt Draco had wrapped around himself and held on tight. “I didn’t mean it, please forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry into your life like that.”

Once the haze in his mind from the sudden jolt of pain cleared, Draco looked up at him. “Potter, I can’t seem to stop confiding in you. There’s no need for anyone but me to apologize.”

“But I hurt you.” Potter’s eyes looked dewy in the weak light from the fire.

Draco couldn’t believe the man was getting so worked up. It actually bothered him somewhat to see Potter so upset for his sake. “You startled me. I’ve been beaten and bruised on nearly every inch of my body. Pain is relative, anyway. I’m willing to forgive you if you’ll forgive me for pouring out my life story all over your sitting room.”

Potter cracked a smile at that. “You can tell me anything you’d like, Malfoy. Please, ruin my upholstery with your feelings.”

Draco sighed deeply. “Well, I suppose if I am going to tell you one way or another, it might as well be on my own terms. Would you like to know what events transpired to land me back at Hogwarts?”

Potter’s smile faded slowly, a grim look replacing it. “I would, if you don’t mind telling.” He let go of the quilt and sat back down in his own chair.

Draco shrugged off the quilt, piling it on his chair before moving to stand in front of the fireplace. He heard Potter’s sharp intake of breath and knew what he was seeing. The light illuminating Draco’s figure would hide nothing. His black pinstripe bedclothes were draped around his gaunt frame, thin far beyond health. “I suppose I’ll start back at the Manor. We lived quietly in the years following the war. No one came calling, and we never left. Our house elves purchased all of our supplies for us, and even they were not wholly safe. At the very end, we were down to twelve from our original seventy. I suppose those twelve are gone now, also. The world was better than it had been under the Dark Lord’s reign for the Muggleborns, but it had turned life around completely for Purebloods.” He paused to shake his head, smiling wryly. “I used to think I hated Muggleborns during my childhood. Now that they’ve tried to burn down my home, I think even less of them.

“The trouble started when Father took his own life. Being a traitor was too much for him to handle. He did it for Mother and I, for we weren’t safe even when allied with the Dark Lord. I won’t go into detail on that – it’s incredibly gruesome. When we defected during the Battle of Hogwarts, Father keenly felt the stigma of being a traitor from the very moment he Disapparated. Every day he grew worse and worse until he could no longer live with himself. Regardless of whether or not he made the right decision – Mother and I both assured him that he did – he just could not see past his own treachery.

“Almost immediately after he died, the Manor was under attack. Our enemies believed that once our patriarch was gone, we would be vulnerable to attack. Mother and I held wave after wave at bay for a long time, and we could have gone on, but Mother realized the fruitlessness of the situation. For every enemy we drove away, two more took his place. So, we sealed the Manor off with ancient blood wards and fled. They pursued us, killing Mother and capturing me. I was held in Bordeaux until your Ministry people arrived.”

He finished his story, eyes gazing into the fireplace with a storm brewing behind his eyes. The memories washed over him, ripping open wounds that had barely begun to heal. His life, gone. His father, driven by shame to commit suicide. His mother, brutally murdered right in front of him. If his life hadn’t already been steeped in misery and misfortune, he would have surely gone insane. He leaned back into the strong body he hadn’t noticed sneaking up behind him, too far entrenched in the horrors of his recent past to be indignant. “You Gryffindors certainly are physically affectionate,” he quipped, no emotion behind his voice. It was an observation stated plainly and simply by a man too touched by the cruelness of the world to be bothered with caring.

“You need it,” Potter replied. “Malfoy, sorry can’t even begin to cover how many apologies you deserve after all that.”

“And none of them from you, thanks,” Draco interrupted.

“I still feel obligated to. We’ll get the Manor back, Malfoy. I’ll help you get your home back,” Potter vowed solemnly.

They both stared into the fire, Harry feeling determined and Draco feeling faint. Then, he actually did faint, and the moment was over.


	3. Flying and Falling

The halls were full of students. Really, really full. Just completely packed with the little bastards. Draco was horrified. He drew his cloak tighter around himself, attempting to stay as close to the wall as possible so as to not have to wade into the sea of gangly limbs and hormones. Potter had mentioned that enrollment was up since they had attended Hogwarts, but this was just plain ridiculous. Some of the students, however, seemed to be cut from a different stock than the rest. Broader in the shoulders, harsher facial features, and thick heads of dark hair alerted Draco to the possibility of transfers from Norway. He supposed it made sense, what with Durmstrang’s reputation as primarily a Dark Arts institution, that it was only a matter of time until the place got shut down.

Still, this was simply absurd.

By the time the morning classes began, Draco had had his fill of children. Luckily for him, the hallways had cleared up significantly and he was able to walk in the center of the halls again as he surveyed what had become of Hogwarts since he’d last seen it. Not much had changed at all, which was comforting to Draco. It was still rather strange, being back at his old school again. The way the magic permeated the air was unmistakable, and though strikingly different from the magical atmosphere of the Manor, it still reminded Draco of home.

While Hogwarts was teeming with the magical auras of untapped potential and raw, unrefined ability, the Manor had felt more established and smooth. It was like the difference between a public lake and a private bath. So many different individuals came and went in a lake, playing in the waters or perhaps doing a bit of fishing. It was an area of congregation for the masses and was often noisy and crowded. Whereas a private bath, on the other hand, played host to a few people cut from similar cloth. The auras blended together seamlessly – they fit together well because they belonged together. The magic combined to create one aura rather than a melting pot of auras.

Draco loved similes and metaphors. He always felt sort of poetic when he thought in metaphors.

One could also compare the magic of Hogwarts to a stew made from a whole slew of ingredients, like when the elves in the school’s kitchens decided to meld all of the leftovers into one dish in order to make room for fresh ingredients in the pantries. Some ingredients really had no business being in the same dish, but the overall experience was not altogether unpleasant. Just rather crowded. Whereas the magic at the Manor was a fine soup. All of the ingredients were chosen very carefully and prepared skillfully in order to craft the perfect flavor.

Draco smiled at his thoughts of the Manor, missing home the way one might miss a beloved relative with whom you were very close. His smile melted away, however, as he thought about how far out of his reach the Manor currently was. It was surely being watched, maybe even attacked. Draco paled. Yes, who was to stop the Sympathetics from chipping away at the blood wards in his absence? There had always been powerful wards over the Manor, but after he and Mother had strengthened them with every last ounce of magic they had left, only the heir to the bloodline could pass through those wards now. However, they would weaken in his absence and over time, while never completely disappearing, could be overwhelmed with great numbers. The Malfoy family was strong, but the mere thought of those cretins attacking his home filled him with fury. He would have to find a way to travel back to the Manor soon.

Rounding a corner, Draco found himself standing at the head of the stairs leading to the dungeons. The corner of his mouth curled up. Ah, yes, his old stomping ground. He began to descend the staircase, the light fading to a soft yellow from the torches on the walls. Unease gnawed at his stomach, but he determinedly ignored it. These dungeons were his home for seven years. He was safe here.

As the darkness grew more thick and inky with each step, Draco’s fear grew in time to it. He had barely made it down the second flight of stairs before stopping. He stared downwards, where he could almost see the first potions classroom. With a graceful flick of his wrist, he lit the tip of his wand and continued, disgusted with himself for needing a light in the middle of the day. The windows disappeared from the walls, replaced with more torches, and Draco knew he was underground. The thought flooded his mind. He saw blood on the walls. The stench of the stagnant water wafted all around him, causing him to gag. A heady dose of adrenaline spiked through his veins as a pulse of pain began in his shoulder and moved down his back. Draco sprinted back up the stairs, desperation clouding his vision. He tripped and landed hard on a stair, but he was so lost in his own mind that he didn’t even acknowledge it, just kept going until he found himself flinging open the doors of the entrance hall and racing out into the brightness of the morning.

Draco panted hard from his run and limped down the grassy slopes, mind still reeling and shocked. He dragged himself over to where the Whomping Willow was amusing itself idly chasing some birds with its club-like branches. The tree barely noticed him as he lowered himself down next to it, stroking the knot on its trunk to pacify it. He kept petting the old tree with his one hand, clutching at his head with the other.

Those weren’t just memories. It was like he had just experienced Bordeaux all over again. Sweat trickled down the back of Draco’s neck. Attempting to walk into the Hogwarts dungeons had triggered a very real thing in his mind. He let out a heavy exhale, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. The palm of his hand rested on his forehead for a moment, feeling the thin scars there with a growing feeling of sickness in his stomach.

* * *

 

“Pages fifty-three to sixty-one to be read for next class,” Harry droned, his hand scrawling the numbers onto the chalkboard as he spoke, “Come with questions about the reading or else we’ll have a written assignment.”

The class groaned and moaned as they snatched up their books and left the classroom. Harry sighed with relief as the door banged shut behind the last student. He couldn’t remember being quite as obnoxious as his own students during his days attending Hogwarts. These kids showed no interest in the finer points of Shielding Spell Theory, instead enchanting notes and passing them in class. Did they really expect the greatest Seeker the school had ever seen to not notice those? 

Meaning to gather up his papers in one sweeping motion, Harry instead sent the entire stack flying across the room. He grumbled to himself as he snatched them out of the air by hand and stuffed them into his bag. Checking his watch, he realized with great relief that he had the next hour free, a rare blessing considering his schedule.

Harry decided he would take a walk outside, maybe visit Hagrid and Luna or sit by the lake and work on his Mermish. He set out for the grounds, pulling off his robe as he did so. It was a rarely warm, sunny day for late September, and Harry wanted to take advantage of it and soak up as much sunshine as he could. He was halfway to the water when he noticed Malfoy sitting under the Whomping Willow. Harry smiled, glad that the other man had decided to get some fresh air, too. Changing course, Harry began walking towards him.

“Hey, Malfoy!” he called cheerfully. Malfoy’s head snapped up and smacked against the trunk of the Whomping Willow, causing the old tree to swing a branch in protest. Malfoy quickly began stroking its knot again, allowing Harry to get closer. “Sorry,” he apologized quickly, “May I join you?”

“If you must,” Malfoy granted, not unkindly, thin fingers idly rubbing at the back of his head where he had bumped it.

“Great,” Harry replied cheerfully, settling himself down next to the other man, “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Lovely,” Malfoy repeated, staring up at Harry with a faraway look. “I suppose so."

“Er, yeah. Are you enjoying yourself, Malfoy?” Harry questioned, attempting to sound casual and mask his embarrassment. Malfoy had a way of staring unabashedly that Harry wasn’t quite used to yet. It made him feel naked, as if Malfoy could read his thoughts simply by observing him with those steely eyes.

Malfoy turned his gaze towards the lake, shrugging. “I feel fine, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Harry somehow doubted Malfoy’s statement but chose to ignore it for the moment. “It’s nice to be out in the sunshine for once. Teaching my classes has really started to stress me out,” he admitted, stretching his arms up in the air before folding them behind his head and leaning back, staring at the light filtering through the trees, “I don’t even think you were as bad as some of these kids.”

“Oh?” Malfoy perked up at that, sensing a challenge, “And how’s that, Potter? Here I thought you Gryffindors loved children and their whimsical innocence. For that matter, I was not a bad child. Simply strong-willed.” He huffed after that, obviously playing at being indignant for his own amusement, “If memory serves, you were the one constantly breaking rules and cutting classes.”

Harry chuckled at that. “I suppose you’ve got me there, Malfoy. On the rule-breaking part, not the child-loving part.”

“Is that why Ginerva washed her hands of you?” Malfoy quipped, and Harry’s attention snapped back to those eyes, now dancing with cruel mirth.

“Not exactly,” Harry muttered. He hadn’t expected Malfoy to bring up his old relationship with Ginny, and his mouth twisted into a frown as he recalled exactly how Ginny had left him. Shacked up with another man while he was playing at the World Cup. It hadn’t been the first time he’d been away from Ginny for a lengthy period of time, which made Harry wonder if there’d been any others. He was in a bad way for a while before he finally got over it.

“Forgive me, Potter, I didn’t mean to offend.” Malfoy’s words, barely spoken above a whisper, tugged at Harry’s heart in a way he couldn’t quite describe. He felt sorry for making Malfoy feel bad for his mocking jab, which was certainly disconcerting. Malfoy just sounded so distraught, as if he was very personally invested in Harry’s feelings.

“It doesn’t matter, Malfoy,” Harry said to attempt to brush the comment off, “It was a while ago, we both moved on from each other.”

“Did you?” Malfoy questioned with one eyebrow quirked in disbelief.

“Yes,” Harry snapped, pushing himself back onto his feet.

Malfoy’s arm shot out, almost instinctively, and caught the bottom hem of Harry’s trousers. Harry looked down, surprised out of his anger, and met Malfoy’s eyes. They were wide and panicked, and his thin lips were parted to reveal a few of his perfectly straight teeth. Harry gulped, at a complete loss. “Malfoy, I,” he began, throat dry.

“Sorry, Potter,” Malfoy let go of Harry’s trouser leg with a conscious effort. His eyes remained locked on Harry’s, but he closed his mouth with an audible click. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Harry told him. “I mean, don’t worry about it,” he amended at Malfoy’s confused stare, “It happens. I didn’t exactly expect us to be friends right away.”

“Do you want to? Be friends, I mean,” came Malfoy’s reply. His voice sounded strong, but Harry could detect a slight waver in his pitch that betrayed him.

Okay, now Harry felt awkward. They were just sitting there, staring at each other. Malfoy had his arms wrapped around his knees, and Harry tried not to think about how defensive that looked, tried not to imagine how many times Malfoy had been hurt and betrayed by people he considered friends in his lifetime. “I mean, yeah, as long as you want to.”

Malfoy appeared to be mulling this over in his mind for a bit before giving Harry a hesitant smile, which Harry returned gratefully.

* * *

Late afternoon found Draco unmoved from his spot beneath the Whomping Willow. Though he was getting a bit hungry, he didn't quite want to waste the last of the day's light by going back into the castle. He’d get a house elf to deliver him food to his rooms later that night, but for now he would enjoy the last of the sunlight. All of the students had gone into the Great Hall for dinner, so the grounds were blissfully deserted and quiet. Out on the lake, Draco could see the giant squid waving its tentacles about, attempting to catch some birds flying overhead.

He was confused about his interaction with Potter earlier that day. The man had seemed perfectly genuine, like he really did want them to be friendly towards each other. He didn’t quite know whether or not he could trust Potter, but he was left with no other options. Besides, wasn't Saint Potter the one the entire Wizarding World had put their trust in not too long ago? Draco figured that, if he was to trust anyone, he could do worse than Potter. Granted, the man had seemed furious when Draco had brought up the Weasely girl, which he would admit was not a smart move on his part, but he had also readily accepted Draco’s apology. So, he clearly didn’t hold grudges too well. Clearly, Potter didn't know how to hold a grudge at all, if their days at school were anything to go by.

Yes, Draco thought, Harry Potter was quite forgiving of him. Years and years of taunts and rivalry, and Potter was still willing to house him and take care of him while he recuperated. Once again his thoughts were drawn to his housing arrangement at Hogwarts. A room that was well-lit yet mirrored his old dormitory. Tastefully furnished and outfitted with similar comforts that Draco often enjoyed at the Manor. No, Harry Potter was not bearing any sort of grudge with that kind of hospitality. Draco was the one who had borne ill will against Potter, taking his frustrations out on the poor orphan boy who already carried the weight of the world and certainly didn’t need any extra enemies on top of the ones he’d already made simply by failing to die. Oh, he felt like scum, alright. Not quite fit to polish Potter's muddy boots, let alone be his friend.

And, just like earlier that day, his thoughts were once-again interrupted by the Chosen One. Draco stroked the Willow’s knot to calm it down enough for Potter to approach him. “Back again, I see.”

“Have you been here all day, Malfoy?” Potter questioned curiously.

Draco shrugged. “How were classes?”

Potter huffed, putting a hand on the trunk of the Willow and leaning over him, “Kids these days can’t tell a unicorn from a kappa.”

“Damn shame, that,” Draco agreed with a smirk. He stared up at Potter and pretended not to notice how the waning light filtered through the leaves of the Willow and dappled Potter with spots of sunshine. His words hung in the air, filling the moment.

“Anyway,” Potter continued, shifting his weight slightly, “I was going to fly for a bit before dinner. Want to join me?”

Draco’s eyes lit up. “I haven’t flown in ages!” he declared gleefully.

Potter laughed, offering him a hand. “Come on, then.”

Draco pretended not to notice the face Potter pulled as he helped him up. He knew he had lost a significant amount of weight, and he knew he probably looked gaunt and awful, but really, did Potter need to be so obviously unnerved?

The pair walked down towards the Quidditch pitch, uncomfortably silent. Draco couldn’t guess what Potter’s exact thoughts were, but he felt anger bubble up inside him as he thought about how Potter had filled out since school and he hadn’t. Potter had obviously been well-fed after the war, and it was clear that his stint in professional Quidditch had transformed his physique. Even with the cloak he wore, Draco could tell by his powerful stride and broad shoulders that Potter had muscles now. Draco knew it wasn’t fair to compare himself to Potter, but he couldn’t help it. The Boy Who Lived was very clearly a man now, his strong jaw shadowed with dark facial hair. Those dumb-looking glasses that used to be entirely too large for his face now even gave him an air of maturity. It really was just completely unfair but so very typical that the Great Harry Potter would not only accomplish amazing feats but also look fantastic doing them.

Draco seethed, realizing he was only working himself up further by dwelling on Potter’s appearance. What did it matter to him if Potter obviously worked out, dressed himself better, and got a real haircut for a change? Draco had always been a fairly attractive man himself, with his perfectly tailored suits, impeccably styled hair, and well-bred airs and mannerisms.

Of course, Draco realized that he had lost far too much body mass to still consider his suits form-fitting. And his hair had gone limp and lifeless from his time in captivity, the once-stunning platinum blond a dull, straw beige.

“Malfoy?” Potter questioned hesitantly, breaking into Draco’s thoughts.

“Yes?” Draco replied, a bit angrily. He bit his lip, willing himself to be pleasant. “I mean, yes, Potter?”

“We’re, uh, we’re here.”

Draco snapped out of his thoughts. Yes, he realized, they were in the broom storage room. Draco’s mouth dropped in shock as the full realization of what he was seeing hit him. “Where is everything?”

“The program has shrunk significantly since you’ve been away.”

Draco stared at all of the empty shelves that had once held practice Quaffles, broom wax, spare gloves, and the like. There were a few pieces of stray equipment here and there, but for the most part, it was like someone had come and stolen everything.

“I keep my brooms locked up in here.” Potter moved to the corner of the room, where an ornate trunk sat propped up against the wall. He hefted it up and put it down in the center of the floor so that he could open it. Inside were two brooms: a Nimbus 2000 and a Firebolt. “I bought a new Nimbus 2000 to replace the one the Whomping Willow destroyed,” he said by way of explanation, “and my Firebolt found its way back after I, er, lost it seventh year.”

Draco knew exactly how Potter had lost his Firebolt, but tactfully chose not to mention it. “They’re beautiful, Potter.” And they really were. Potter clearly kept his brooms in impeccable condition. The handles shone like they’d never been touched before, and not a twig of the tails were out of place.

“Which would you prefer to ride?”

Draco looked down at him them, tearing his gaze away from the beautiful racing brooms. “They’re yours. I’ll ride whichever you don’t.”

Potter laughed at that. “You’re right, Malfoy. They’re my brooms. As such, I like them both pretty well. So, whichever you prefer.”

“Alright then,” Draco conceded, “I’ve never actually gotten to ride a Firebolt before.”

Potter smiled widely at that. “Oh, you’re going to love it.”

Potter was right. Oh, Potter was so right. Draco thought this over and over as he dove and spun and whirled around moments later. The handling was like a dream on Potter’s Firebolt. Draco barely had to try; the broom seemed to respond to his thoughts more than his actual movements. He rushed at the ground, doing a front flip at the very bottom of the arc and shooting back upwards, whooping with delight. He hadn’t felt so happy, so carefree in ages. The chill of the evening wind bit at his face and he reveled in it.

He looked over to where Potter was just kicking off of the ground, and his breath caught in his throat. He had barely even begun to warm up, but Draco could already see the professional Quidditch player Potter had been. His remarkable skill in school had been refined by playing for Puddlemere, and it was apparently by the simple grace with which Potter flew. While Draco was a sloppy child on his broom, every move Potter made was deliberate and skillful. Instead of feeling jealous, Draco felt awed and proud of Potter. He flew up to where Potter was hovering by the goalposts and smiled at him, warm and honest. “How about showing me some tricks you learned in the pros, Potter?”

Potter looked taken aback for a second, but then his face lit up. “Sure!”

The two carried on like that for quite a while, Potter demonstrating a move and Draco mimicking it, until the sun completely slipped below the horizon. At that point, the two had taken to flying lazily about the grounds as a cool-down of sorts, as they were both tired out from their antics. Draco's wounds had begun to act up from overexerting himself whilst flying, but he was determined to ignore it until he could collapse on his bed for the night. Draco flew low above the lake, letting his fingertips skim the inky black surface of the water. It was icy cold, and the sensation caused Draco to shudder. He looked up and realized he had put quite a bit of distance between himself and Potter, who was flying towards the castle at a relaxed pace. Draco’s heart sped up as he shot off towards the castle in pursuit of Potter. He slowed as he approached him, attempting to appear nonchalant. “The sun’s gone down,” he observed with a casual façade on.

“I think Hogwarts looks especially magical at night when the stars are out,” Potter replied, and Draco mentally cursed.

“Tsk tsk, Potter,” Draco chided, trying for a stern tone, “Mustn’t be out past curfew. Filch will be after you.”

Potter laughed at that, sweeping high over one of the castle’s many towers and circling it a few times. “I’m a professor now. Besides, I’d like to see Mrs. Norris climb all the way up here.”

Draco found himself laughing along. He didn’t feel upset at the darkness slowly creeping in as the last light faded from the sky and the first stars appeared, but his mind kept returning to the dungeons earlier, making him anxious to avoid another repeat. Nor did he want to appear weak in front of Potter. The situation called for tact and very subtle manipulation.

His thoughts were interrupted by his stomach, which chose that moment to growl loudly. Potter drifted over to him, a look of concern on his face. “I’d forgotten about dinner. I’m sorry, Malfoy, it completely slipped my mind. Want to head back?”

Tact and subtle manipulation indeed. “If it isn’t too much trouble,” Draco all but simpered, seizing his moment, “I would hate to ruin the evening for you.”

Potter began flying towards the Quidditch pitch, Draco following closely behind. “You aren’t ruining anything at all, Malfoy,” he assured him, tone warm and concerned, “I should be more considerate of you.”

“Really, Potter, I’m quite alright,” Draco insisted, beginning to feel a prickle of annoyance. Sure, he’d gotten his way, but Potter didn’t have to go and spout sentiments.

They flew the rest of the way in silence, and it was with great pain that Draco parted with Potter’s Firebolt. He vowed to fly on it again as soon as possible. The two began the trek back to the castle, the sky now alight with little pinpricks of stars and a nearly full moon shining down. Draco’s legs felt heavy as he walked slowly up the path, attempting to match pace with Potter’s powerful strides. His muscles felt like they didn’t want to work, and he supposed he deserved it for trying keep up with Potter on the pitch for so long. He really wasn’t in any sort of shape to be doing such taxing physical activity, but he’d really enjoyed himself. It wasn’t until Potter had gotten a bit ahead of him that he cleared his throat. “Potter?” he questioned, cursing how weak his voice sounded, “Would you mind waiting up?”

Potter stopped and waited for Draco to catch up, looking sheepish. “Sorry. I was really lost in thought there.”

“Unfamiliar territory?” Draco quipped with a smirk.

“What?” Potter asked dumbly.

“Never mind,” Draco wheezed, rubbing his shoulder absently.

“Malfoy, are you alright?” Potter asked, his voice dripping with worry.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Draco replied, though they could both tell how out of breath he was. It was abundantly clear that Draco was not perfectly fine by any stretch of the imagination.

“I can help you, you know,” Potter offered, putting a hand on Draco’s shoulder.

Draco shrugged it off, annoyance clear in his movements. “I said I’m fine.”

Potter stopped, and Draco continued a bit before hesitantly stopping and looking back at him. “If you’re fine,” Potter challenged, arms crossed over his chest, “Then how come you won’t walk more than a few feet ahead of me?”

Draco bristled at that. “I’ll have you know-”

“Oh, come off it, Malfoy,” Potter demanded, walking up to him and staring him down, “Merlin’s sake, you’re limping! You aren’t fine. Accept it. It doesn’t make you any less of a person to need help. Don’t,” he commanded as Draco opened his mouth to argue, “Just shut up and let me help you back to your room. I don’t care what you do after that, if you have to mope around for the rest of the night.”

Draco glared pure venom, but he didn’t resist when Potter scooped him up onto his back and carried him the rest of the way up to the castle. He was irate, he was mildly humiliated, and he was beyond upset with Potter for challenging him like that. But he was also sore, cold, and tired. So he leaned his weight on Potter, his head resting on the man’s strong shoulder, and willed himself to stay awake for as long as possible.

* * *

 

Draco was just finishing the last bite of his dinner when he heard a knock at his door. “Who could that be?” he muttered aloud, attempting to make light of the situation to avoid embarrassment for as long as possible. He had resisted the urge to Obliviate himself when he woke up on his bed and realized that he had essentially fallen asleep in Potter’s arms – on his back, whatever. He managed to live through mind-bending torture only to die of shame, apparently.

“Coming!” he announced, shuffling over to the door to open it, revealing a sheepish and guilty looking Potter.

“Sorry, Malfoy, it’s fine if you don’t want to talk to me much. I just wanted to apologize,” Potter said hurriedly, evidently expecting Draco to slam the door in his face.

“Not here to belittle me to an early grave, are you?” Draco deadpanned, moving away from the door and back to his seat on his bed, “Might as well come in, then.”

Harry entered Malfoy’s room cautiously, feeling horribly guilty for the way he yelled at him earlier. But really, Malfoy was just being stubborn. He was clearly in pain and needed Harry’s help! He was glad when Malfoy didn’t argue, but he still felt like he needed to come apologize anyway. “So, listen, Malfoy, I am really sorry about the way I kind of yelled at you earlier. My mind must've went into Professor-mode,” he explained, taking a seat next to Malfoy on the bed, “I just didn’t want to see you struggle like that by yourself. I don’t want you to think you have to do this alone.”

Malfoy stared at him hard, and Harry once again felt incredibly exposed under his gaze. “That’s simply the way I do things, Potter,” he explained, tone level and betraying no emotion. “Slytherins, Malfoys especially, are taught to be independent, to not need people to do things for us. We’re the ones who offer aid to others.”

Harry frowned sadly, putting his hand on Malfoy’s shoulder. “It might be hard for you to believe, but I used to think the same thing about myself.”

Caught off guard by Harry’s honesty, Malfoy barked out a laugh. Surprised at the sound, he clasped his hand over his mouth before lowering it and chuckling. “Point taken, Chosen One. Before I go giving you too much credit, however, elaborate for me what you mean by that.”

Malfoy’s smile threw Harry for a loop, and he found himself grasping at thin air where his thoughts once were. “Well, you see, Malfoy… I mean, what I meant was that you always used to harp on about how I like to martyr myself and save the day all the time. Ron and Hermione used to tell me all the time that I had a hard time accepting help from others, too. You guys turned out to be right,” he admitted, enjoying the evident surprise on Malfoy’s face, “Yeah, even you were right about me, Malfoy. I just didn’t want to inconvenience anyone or get anyone hurt. My problems usually involved dangerous situations, and anyone helping me would be putting themselves at risk for me.”

Malfoy nodded along, eyes slipping closed for a moment before focusing back on Harry’s. “In my situation, I was raised to never show weakness. To show vulnerability to your enemies is dangerous, to your allies possibly even more so.”

“What?” Harry asked, dumbfounded.

Malfoy’s gaze settled on Harry’s knee as he talked. “Pureblood society had very strict standards, shall we say. It was a very dog-eat-dog world, where lineage and power went hand in hand.” Harry could see that Malfoy’s hands were trembling again, but he didn’t try to touch him. “If you don’t have lineage, you cannot wield power,” he continued fastidiously, speaking slowly and deliberately as if picking and choosing each word individually, “If you could not prove yourself powerful, your ancestors – your lineage – would abandon you.”

Harry worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “You can’t possibly mean your family would actually throw you out.”

Malfoy shook his head. “My inheritance. My social standing. My position as Malfoy heir. If Father found a weakness or a flaw in me, he would ensure I had the proper motivation to correct it.” Malfoy chuckled darkly, raising his eyes to meet Harry’s. They seemed to be a deeper gray, as if there were shadows hiding behind them now. “You see, Potter, the game isn’t to erase your weakness. No, the game is hiding your weakness.”

Harry sat, stunned, pondering this revelation. Malfoy was being so open, so honest with him on such a personal matter. The Purebloods and the Malfoys seemed like horrible people to Harry, no better than the Dursleys. In fact, now that Harry thought about it, living with the Dursleys had been an exercise in concealing his feelings, not letting them know that their words hurt. Pretending that he didn’t really want to go buy a popsicle from the ice cream truck. Appearing indifferent to being referred to as a freak. Perhaps he and Malfoy weren’t so different after all.

“I understand.” Harry looked at Malfoy, really looked at him for the first time since he’d arrived. His eyes were slightly sunken in, but the shadows Harry had thought he’d seen danced with spirit and life. His frame was unhealthily thin from being starved - or underfed. His skin was a sickly pale from being locked away in a dungeon - or a cupboard. This man in front of him had once been a scared child, forced into a role he didn’t understand and given a task he may not have asked for. Harry looked at Malfoy and he saw himself. “I understand you, Malfoy.”

“You understand me?” Malfoy repeated. He inched closer to Harry. His tone was one of disbelief but his eyes held hope.

“Yes,” Harry insisted.

“Forgive me if I seem a bit dubious,” Malfoy drawled, “But how do you understand my situation at all?”

“Well,” Harry pondered where to begin, “We’ve both got a few screws loose.”

Caught completely off guard again, Malfoy let out another barking laugh, but this time he made no move to conceal it. He tipped over onto his back, spreading his arms out and laughing so fully and loudly that Harry briefly wondered if he was going to be alright. Wiping moisture from his eyes, Malfoy addressed the ceiling as he spoke. “Ah, Potter, it’s funny because it’s true, I’m afraid.”

But Harry’s eyes were transfixed on Malfoy’s forehead. When he had fallen backwards onto the bed, his hair had fallen to the side to reveal a series of scars that were still pink and shiny. Malfoy noticed Harry wasn’t laughing along with him, and it only took him a moment to realize that his hair had parted. He sat back up solemnly. “I hadn’t meant for you to see that, but I suppose I don’t mind if you want to look,” he admitted quietly.

Harry lifted a hand and gently pushed back Malfoy’s blond bangs. “Pureblood” had been carved into his forehead, the letters precise and neat, as if someone had taken great care writing them. He ghosted his thumb over the “b” with morbid fascination.

“Malfoy,” Harry murmured, “Who? Why?”

“I never got a good look at the bastard’s face,” Malfoy told him, eyes focused on Harry’s bravely, “Didn’t really want my eyes open most of the time, anyway.” He paused, reaching up and taking Harry’s wrist to draw his hand away. “It was a statement to the others. That we shouldn’t be proud to be Pureblood.”

Harry’s memory flashed back to his detentions with Umbridge, and his eyes fell to his hand where the phrase “I must not tell lies” still stood out against his tanned skin. Malfoy’s eyes followed his and he nodded knowingly. Harry nodded back. It was all he could think of to do. He wanted to say something, anything, but his mind was blank.

“I think I’d like to be left alone now, if it’s all the same to you,” Malfoy stated, voice devoid of emotion. He sounded exhausted.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Harry conceded, and he left the room without another word.


	4. Conversations

The morning brought a large breakfast tray piled high with muffins and sliced fruits with generous dollops of sweet cream heaped on top. The house elf bearing the food noisily set it down upon the only table large enough to hold it in Draco’s room, placing a large jug of orange juice next to it. The scent of the freshly baked bread wafted over to Draco, who was now feigning sleep until the elf left. He had immediately noticed the intrusion of his private quarters and had been shocked awake by his senses, alerting him to the potential threat. Feeling foolish, but not daring to let his guard down, Draco remained tense until he heard the barely audible noise that signaled the elf had Disapparated. 

Swinging his feet over the side of the bed, Draco stood slowly and shuffled over to the tray, stomach grumbling loudly. How long had he been asleep for? The sun was high in the sky, shining its rays through the lone window in the room. The bright glare stung Draco’s eyes as if berating him for sleeping so late, but he had been so tired. He couldn’t recall a time after the war where he had ever slept so well before.

It was with an uncharacteristic spring in his step that Draco Malfoy took to the corridors that morning, determined to find someone to harass. His usual victim, Potter, was nowhere to be found, but Draco was determined that he would pick a quarrel with someone today. This dream led him down to the greenhouses – he thought he’d heard someone in the hallway utter the words “Professor Longbottom” in passing, and the thought made him positively giddy. In fact, he hadn’t even given a thought to the severity of his Death Eater loyalties during the war until he was passing through the first greenhouse. Yes, perhaps his history would prevent Draco from having his fun – it was all well and good when they were children, but that was before Draco and his friends had committed serious war crimes. But then again, Potter had been game for playful argument thus far, and how much different could Longbottom be from Potter?

His search for Longbottom took him all the way to the third greenhouse, where he could see people milling about amongst some truly enormous flora and what looked like dark fog. Draco knocked at the door briskly before swinging it open. In the greenhouse stood a class of about thirty some seventh years, all equipped with shears that glowed oddly, casting an eerie purple haze about the room. Longbottom turned immediately from where he was poking at the roots of one of the large, fichus-looking plants to stare at him. His eyes were unfocused for a moment before realization slid them into sharp focus. But, to Draco’s great surprise, he smiled cheerfully at him. 

“Malfoy, just in time! We were just doing some pruning of these Vanishing Vine trees; think you could pitch in?” Longbottom asked good-naturedly, waving his own pair of shears out in front of him. “Students, this is Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow first at Longbottom and second at the Vanishing Vine he was standing next to while the class all murmured their hellos, clearly not making too much of this unassuming stranger. The name Malfoy roused interest in a few of them, but most were too focused on attempting to trim the straggly branches of the tricky plants, which were doing an excellent job of evading the pruners by making their branches disappear and reappear in different locations, sometimes even on plants on the other side of the greenhouse just for laughs. 

“Vanishing Vines, Longbottom?” Draco asked, strolling up to his old classmate and snatching the shears from his dirt-coated hands, “Bit edgy for Hogwarts, isn’t it?”

“Haven’t you heard, Malfoy?” Longbottom prodded him in the side with his elbow, a jovial smirk on his face, “The curriculum is including some edgy new branches of magic. Speaking of,” he broke off, reaching out with his wand hand and effectively halting a nearby branch that was attempting to elude capture from one of the students. Draco deftly snipped it off, the branch clattering to the floor, suddenly quite solid. 

“Potter had mentioned, yes,” Draco replied, reaching down and picking up the clipping. He balanced it on his palm, surveying it with a critical eye. “They seem well taken care of.”

At this, Longbottom’s face fell slightly. “Thanks, but I can’t seem to do much for the roots at the moment. All of our maintenance is so speculative right now, and something’s gone wrong with them. Come have a look.” He beckoned Draco over to the roots of the Vanishing Vine he had initially been inspecting. “See how they’re all twisted like that? I just can’t figure it out, but it’s preventing them from flowering. Know anything about it?”

“A bit,” Draco said, racking his brain for his knowledge of Dark plants. Aunt Bella had been particularly fond of the Vanishing Vines in her garden, prizing them for their ability to stab an intruder from a distance with startling efficiency and accuracy, so long as they were taught properly. But when their roots got twisted like this, it meant that… “They need water.”

“Sorry?”

Draco hadn’t quite realized he had spoken aloud. “You’ve not giving them nearly enough water. Vanishing Vines grow in swamps and rainforests, so however much water you’re giving them, it isn’t enough.”

“Really?” It wasn’t so much of a question directed at Draco, as Longbottom had said it as he stared in fascination down at the roots. “They’ve already been given quite a lot of water, though. We took samples from the rainforest we took them from and measured how much they need when we were at the sight… but of course, we haven’t been very thorough in what quality water we give to them. It doesn’t really matter with most other magical flora I’ve seen besides the more finicky desert-dwellers.”

“Right,” Draco supplied, “You need to make sure that it’s getting all the same minerals like it had in its original habitat.”

“Merlin, of course that’s got to be it, though. Lucky you stopped by to pitch in, innit?” Longbottom looked up at him curiously. “You know a lot about Vanishing Vines, Malfoy.”

Draco shrugged, slightly uncomfortable with Longbottom’s stare. Was it wrong to know about them? “Well, au- … a relative of mine used to keep them, you see.” Probably unwise to associate himself with Aunt Bella in front of the child whose parents she tortured into insanity. 

“Dreadfully useful, Vanishing Vines,” Longbottom supplied quickly, clearly sensing Draco’s trepidation, “Bit scary, but once you earn their trust, they’re really playful and funny.”

Draco nodded, but he was almost positive no one else in the room thought there was anything amusing about pruning the pesky vines. It looked horribly frustrating, what with the way they kept dodging the students’ every attempt to clip away the smaller branches. 

He and Longbottom discussed the various properties of the Vanishing Vines and their properties until one of the students irately told them that class ought to be dismissed for lunch. Longbottom embarrassedly waved them off, admitting to Draco that he had quite lost track of time while they were talking. Draco found himself agreeing; he hadn’t noticed how quickly the time had passed. He’d just been so happy to be discussing something that reminded him even ever so remotely of the life he’d known before things had gotten complicated. 

As a child and early into his teenage years, his Aunt Bella would take him into her garden – really, her pride and joy – and tell him all about the various magical plants that she cultivated. Though she would never be remembered as one, Bellatrix Lestrange was something of a green thumb when she wasn’t busy licking mud off of the Dark Lord’s robe hem. It had disturbed Draco to see her act so twisted, so unlike her usual, haughty self when she was groveling at the Dark Lord’s feet. She had been his favorite aunt, after all, though he would never be able to admit that to anyone ever again. 

Bellatrix Lestrange had taught Draco every spell, every counter curse, and every trick that had ever meant anything to him in his entire life. Where Lucius had become frustrated with his son, Bellatrix was resolute in her belief in him. His father had been a firm believer in strict lessons, using shame as a teaching tool in order to impart his knowledge of the Dark Arts. If you cannot master this spell, you are a disgrace to the Malfoy line, you will never succeed me, and you can forget about your generous allowances, ad nauseum. Whereas Aunt Bella, on the other hand, never used the word “can’t” with Draco. She always told him that he would be able to master everything any teacher ever threw at him and never stopped encouraging him and his ambitions. That’s what made the difference in Draco’s childhood education. Sure, he came away a little pompous for it, but also an incredibly bright student, second in his class only to the child prodigy and notorious walking Encyclopedia Hermione Granger. The world would only ever see her as Bellatrix Lestrange, Voldemort’s right hand and faithful pawn, killing at his every command and at her every whim. The wizarding community would forever put their black mark upon her for all of her wicked deeds. But Draco would forever be grateful to his Auntie Bella, who taught him to believe in himself. 

Of course, he couldn’t breathe a word of that particular train of thought to anyone at Hogwarts currently, let alone Neville Longbottom. As much as he grudgingly enjoyed his conversation with Longbottom, there were pieces of himself that he naturally kept to himself. Pleased, nonetheless, that he had made a new ally at Hogwarts, he bid Longbottom farewell and began trudging up to the castle for lunch. He had just crossed the threshold of the Entrance Hall and had poised his fingers to snap for a Castle Elf when Potter came jogging down the grand staircase towards him, cloak in hand. “Hold it, Malfoy!” he called cheerily, “What would you say to going into Hogsmeade with me?”

Draco certainly hadn’t expected that. He realized that Potter was, in fact, carrying two cloaks right as he was handed one. “It’ll probably get chilly when the sun goes behind the clouds,” he said by way of explanation. Draco shrugged, falling into step beside Potter as they strode back out into the sunshine and down the path to town. 

“How was your morning?” Potter asked him, attentive as always. Draco didn’t feel particularly bitter about Potter’s coddling today, however. He recalled to mind their conversation the previous night and a dusting of pink appeared on his cheeks and nose as he remembered how he’d dismissed Potter unceremoniously from his chambers. 

“Just fine, thanks,” he replied, staring forward resolutely though he could feel Potter’s eyes on him. He wished he could force his face to stop from flushing as he admitted, “I spent it helping Longbottom with his Vanishing Vines.” Before Potter could comment on his choice in company – he could practically smell the smug comments – he plowed on ahead. “Really, though, Vanishing Vines are sort of a dangerous plant to keep around the grounds, aren’t they? If someone whom the plants aren’t used to stumbled along and provoked them, things could get awfully messy. Obviously, it’s not really any of my concern, and I hardly care what happens to anyone stupid enough to provoke a Vanishing Vine, but shouldn’t that be something you Gryffindors concern yourselves with?”

When he didn’t receive an immediate reply, Draco whipped his head around to stare at Potter, who was smiling at him so innocently and so happily that Draco’s flush spread all the way up to his hairline. “What on Earth are you smiling about like that, Potter?”

“You,” he replied simply, “Neville’s a great guy. I’m just happy you two got the chance to become friends.”

Draco grumbled bashfully and stared down at his feet. “Dunno if I’d call us friends, Potter.”

“Right, right,” Potter corrected himself, though Draco highly suspected he wasn’t being sincere. “Of course, it’s too soon to call you friends.”

The Three Broomsticks wasn’t too terribly crowded, something Draco was immensely grateful for. Though the terrorist group that was after him could hardly make a public move, it still made him incredibly nervous to walk about in public. He’d kept perhaps a step too close to Potter as they had weaved their way in and out of the crowds of shoppers bustling about the streets of Hogsmeade, their shoulders knocking together every few seconds. Potter had kept up a stream of easy, casual conversation the entire time, which Draco replied to with clipped responses, eyes darting left and right constantly up until the moment they had slipped into their booth in the pub. 

Now, mug of mead clasped between his thin, brittle fingers, Draco allowed himself to relax slightly, shoulders rounding as he dipped his head to sip at his drink. The taste of the liquid – heady, thick, and tasting strongly of honey – seemed to have an instant effect on his mood. He watched Potter as he came back from ordering their food at the bar. He then removed his glasses, place them on the table, and rub at the bridge of his nose with one index finger, staring at Draco with an odd little smile on his face. Draco stared back, eyebrow quirked as he skimmed the pad of his little finger along the rim of his glass. “You seem to be in good spirits today, Potter. Something good happen?” he asked.

“That depends, I suppose,” Potter replied vaguely, still smiling that troublesome smile of his.

Draco took Potter’s bait. “Depends on what?”

“Depends entirely on you, Draco.”

“Depends entirely on me wha-… hold on. Draco?”

Potter’s upgraded his smile for a grin. “I feel like we’re at that point, aren’t we?”

Draco mulled this over, taking overly large gulps of his mead to buy himself some reaction time. The only people who’d ever used his Christian name were his relatives, and those who were like family to him, like Severus and Pansy and Blaise. A lump rose in his throat. All of them dead. “I feel like you may be right about that, Potter.”

“Now, now,” he chastised, green eyes sparkling with delight, apparently at Draco’s agreement, “You’re to call me Harry if I’m to call you Draco.”

Draco stared hard at the other man for a moment, their eyes meeting. They kept the contact up, and Draco marveled at the way Potter could maintain a stare so unafraid and open for so long. It was a bit draining, all this familiarity, if Draco were allowing himself to entertain any thoughts of fatigue in relation to himself, which he most certainly wasn’t. “Harry, then.” 

“Good.” And he slumped in his seat, shoulders relaxing, and Draco couldn’t help but crack a smile at Potter’s – Harry, he corrected himself – at the way Harry so blatantly dropped his guard. He was purposefully over exaggerating his comfort level in some sort of ploy to get Draco to relax as well. Or perhaps it was to prove to him that there was trust between them. Either way, Draco mirrored the action almost without thinking about it, allowing himself to place his elbows on the tabletop and rest his chin on top of his hands. 

“So, Harry,” Draco drawled, trying out his name as if he was tasting a fine wine, letting the syllables roll over his tongue and past his lips slowly. He found that the word didn’t feel as strange as he expected it to. “Now that I am calling you Harry, will you tell me what has you so cheerful today?”

Harry smirked at him, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards to allow just a little bit of his teeth to show. Draco felt a slight shudder run through him. Potter smirking was definitely an attractive look for the man. It made him look devilish, like he was up to something wicked. Now, there was a thought that Draco definitely would be keeping to himself. He watched with an odd fascination as Potter’s lips spread, still looking incredibly smug, and his tongue darted out to form his words. “See, I bet you can answer that for me now, though, can’t you?”

Draco shot him a disapproving frown. “Now, if I knew the answer, would I be asking you? Don’t make me go back to calling you Potter.” When Potter’s delicious expression fell slightly at the threat, Draco became confused. “You can’t mean that my calling you Harry is what has you skipping about like a first year?”

Potter – or Harry – simply looked a bit sheepish. “Well, er, yeah.”

Draco didn’t quite know how to react to that information. His first instinct was to tell Potter that he was being silly. Another gulp of mead gave him a moment to mull it over. A thousand conflicting thoughts flashed through his mind at once. Was he being too open, to free, with Potter? By using first names with each other, were they taking this new friendship to a more intimate level than Draco was ready for? Oh, but he was so very desperate, and Harry was always being so attentive, so there for him. He could not keep reverting back to his old self every time he was faced with a situation he would normally have considered unsavory. Old Draco would have scoffed at Potter’s offered friendship, laughed at Longbottom’s bumbling about with the Vanishing Vines, and would never have stooped so low as to confide in the likes of either of them. 

Old Draco’s friends and family were all dead. That was an important consideration. Perhaps the person known as Malfoy had died right along with them. Perhaps it was time to be just Draco, the Draco that he had always sort of wanted to be, secretly and very deep down in the cockles of his heart. Making friends with whomever he wanted without regard for what society would say. Hell, these days society was people like Longbottom and Potter. If he were to be truly accurate, then it would be considered a wise social move to get “in” with the old Gryffindor crew - the Golden and Silver trios as it were – to elevate his status.

Call him old fashioned, but he could not help but weigh everything in terms of status. 

He realized he had left Harry hanging a bit too long to be considered comfortable for either party. “I’m flattered,” he replied simply, but Draco allowed himself to try out that small little smile Harry had worn earlier. 

If it was possible for Harry to get any more relaxed, he accomplished it after hearing that. He picked up his own mug of mead and took a healthy swig of it. “You look good when you smile like that, Draco,” Harry told him matter-of-factly, his light blush the only indication that he had just said something embarrassing. 

Draco quirked an eyebrow, determined to play along but not wanting to overstep any boundaries he couldn’t see. “You think I look good, Harry?” he questioned with mock incredulousness. Shifting his expression to be a little – okay, a hell of a lot – more suggestive, he altered his tone so that he was nearly purring, he murmured, “Or, should I ask, you think I look good, Harry?”

Harry’s blush was now a very dark scarlet, giving him the appearance of a vaguely hassled, very ripe tomato. “Merlin, Draco, it was an innocent compliment.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to blush. “Sorry, I got a bit carried away with that comment.”

Harry looked up at him in surprise, like he almost didn’t expect sincerity. “It’s fine, Draco, really. It’s just that… I mean, you’re so…,” he trailed off, looking all the world like he was lost for words as he stared at Draco, eyes moving all over him like the words he was looking for were somewhere on Draco’s body, “Well, you’re a good looking bloke, you know?”

Before he quite knew what he was doing, Draco was shaking his head furiously and speaking in a rush. “You don’t need to console me, Potter, I know what I’ve been reduced to all too well.” He needed to leave, oh Merlin, what had he just said? Eyes wild, they darted from Potter’s face to the door and back.

“Hey.” His voice was soothing and a warm hand touched his knuckles hesitantly. “It’s Harry, remember? And I’m not trying to pander to you, Draco, you know I wouldn’t.” He paused, waiting for Draco’s eyes to settle on his own. “You haven’t been reduced to anything. Sure, you look like you could stand to have a few extra helpings at dinner, but it doesn’t make you any less. You’re a survivor, and you ought to be proud of yourself.”

“Proud?” he asked, attempting to sound disdainful, but it just came out hollow, “Proud that I somehow managed not to die?”

“S’what I did,” Harry offered.

“Fair point,” Draco conceded. He couldn’t help noticing that Harry was still touching his hand, his fingertips rubbing his bony knuckles in small circle patterns. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m a shadow of my former self. You have to have noticed when we were flying how the wind kept tossing me around like I was eleven again.”

“Sure,” Harry agreed immediately. For some reason, this encouraged Draco, who leaned in slightly to listen to what Harry was saying. “You’ve been through hell. Of course you’re affected. But you’ll come back from it. You’re resilient like that. And I’m not lying to you when I say you’re good looking.” Draco’s expression must have betrayed his skepticism, because Harry’s voice grew a bit louder when he said, “You really are!”

“If you insist,” Draco said dismissively, eyes sliding to the window rather than keep looking at Harry. What he said next, though, snapped Draco’s attention immediately back.

“Am I going to have to prove it to you for you to believe that I find you attractive?”

He’d said it sort of exasperatedly, but that didn’t matter. Draco’s mind went straight to places it hadn’t been since fifth year, places that he had placed a mental barricade over to prevent himself from ever going there again due to the sheer impossibility of the thing. But there it was, and Draco couldn’t process what Harry might be suggesting.   
“This escalated somewhat,” he breathed out, mouth suddenly dry.

Harry, to his credit, seemed a bit shocked himself at what had come tumbling out of his mouth. “Yeah, any chance I can just reel that one back in?”

Draco sighed, but inwardly he was relieved. “If you must.” Too much had already been said between them for Draco to be able to go back, but he was glad for one less thing to think about for the moment. 

“Right, well.” Harry seemed like he had no idea what he had been attempting to say before his conversational faux pas, but he quickly regained his verbal footing. “If you like, I think it would be a good idea if you started training with me in the mornings. I think you’re up to it now that you’ve started to develop a regular sleep schedule and have been eating better.” He ran a hand through his hair, doing an excellent job of mussing it up more so than it already had been. “I understand that you’re probably concerned about gaining some weight back as soon as you can. It’s hard when you’ve been so underfed, but it’s a good idea to start as soon as possible.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience here.”

Harry nodded absently, his eyes focused on a spot of the wall next to Draco’s head. “Yeah, a bit. I was always scrawny all through school until I got serious about Quidditch.”

“I meant experience being underfed,” Draco pointed out, suddenly immensely curious. In spite of himself, he was very interested in the home life of the Boy Who Lived. The only stories anyone had ever heard were of when Harry had been a baby and then when he started Hogwarts. Bit of a gap in between there. 

Harry sighed deeply. “You honestly want to know about my less-than-magical childhood?” When Draco merely nodded sternly, he sighed again. “There isn’t much to tell. I lived with my Muggle aunt and uncle, who hated anything even remotely out of the ordinary. You can imagine that having a wizard for a nephew wasn’t exactly their largest point of pride.” Harry snorted at his own joke. “Yeah, they generally kept me locked up in a cupboard and pushed my food through a little flap in the door. That is, when they remembered to feed me.”

“Harry, that is absolutely the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” Draco protested, fury burning white hot in his heart, “Merlin, I used to think I had it bad when I wasn’t allowed seconds of dessert.”

“It wasn’t all completely awful,” Harry attempted, spinning his mead mug around between his hands as he spoke, “I mean, sometimes when they left the house, I would get to come out and have a popsicle or some leftover pudding from the kitchen.” He seemed to realize as he was saying it that he wasn’t making his situation seem better in any sense because by the time his voice trailed off, he was grimacing. “Okay, it was completely awful. I never wanted to leave Hogwarts.”

“I see why.”

The pair sat in silence for a moment, each staring down into their drinks. Draco mulled over this new information he had presented with. No, it would be more accurate to describe it as the things he now knew about Harry because he had confided in him. The thought made Draco feel warm. If he’d had that kind of a childhood, he would never have told any of his school friends about it. It would’ve made them pity him, and Draco would never allow himself to be pitied. Perhaps that’s why Harry had told him, though. He knew that Draco would not pity him for it. 

Rosemarta came by their table bearing a tray and placed their lunches down in front of them, walking away with a backwards wave. Draco had always sort of liked the barmaid, though he knew her to be a horrible gossip. No doubt everyone in Great Britain would know by nightfall that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had been out on a lunch date. He picked up a chip, greasy with salt and vinegar, and popped it into his mouth. 

Harry, however, was visibly uncomfortable. Draco stared at him as he used one of his chips to prod at the others, mouth twisted as if he was struggling internally with something. “Harry,” he started in what he hoped was a comforting tone, “Trust me when I say that nothing you tell me about your past could ever hurt my opinion of you.”

Harry looked up, startled for a moment. “You mean that?”

“Sure,” Draco nodded, “I mean, I’ve never exactly held you in high regard until a short while ago. Nowhere to go but up, as they say. And being brought up by Muggles against your will is certainly no fault of yours, therefore I could not possibly hold it against you.”

“I… thanks, I guess?” Harry really didn’t seem too sure how to receive Draco’s attempt at pacifying the other man’s clearly tumultuous thoughts. 

“Tell me about the Weasleys,” Draco tried instead, “I am under the impression that they were more of a family to you than the Muggles you lived with?”

At once, like the flicking of a switch, Harry’s whole demeanor reversed. His face practically radiated pleasure as he nodded his agreement. “The Weasleys sort of took me in once I started at Hogwarts. Without them, I dunno what I would be like.” Realization visibly dawned on him, and for a moment he simply looked at Draco with his mouth half-open and his hand halfway raised to put a chip in. “Actually, if I hadn’t met Ron on the train on my first day, I would’ve probably ended up being friends with you. Would’ve been sorted into Slytherin, too, no doubt.”

Draco stared. “You have to be joking.” When Harry merely remained silent, Draco plowed on. “You mean to tell me that a chance meeting with Weasley on the Express is what made you act like such a ponce to me before the Sorting? I tried to befriend you, Harry! We could’ve been best mates, not you and Weasley!” Harry sort of looked like he wanted to interject, but Draco was laughing his loud, honest laugh at this point. “Oh, what a riot! I can’t even imagine, you in Slytherin and coming round the Manor for holidays!” He wiped moisture from his eyes and sighed in delight as he ate another handful of chips. 

“I didn’t realize you’d find it so funny, but it’s really strange to imagine being with you and not Ron,” Harry admitted with a noncommittal shrug, “Still, I guess it could’ve happened if you hadn’t acted like such a twat to Hagrid when I met you in Diagon Alley. When we got our robes, remember?”

Draco shot his plate of food a dark look. “Yes, well, I certainly am my parents’ child, aren’t I?”

“There’s good and bad in everyone,” was Harry’s quick retort, easy and said with a smile, “Did your mother ever tell you how she saved my life during the Battle of Hogwarts?”

Draco’s mouth fell open, and he didn’t even care how uncouth he must have looked. “She what?”

“Saved my life, yeah,” Harry informed him, leaning back in the booth seat, “Covered for me when I was pretending to be dead. Straight lied to Voldemort’s face. You wanna know why? Because I’d told her that you were still alive, up at the castle. Pretty much all she cared about at that point was you, I reckon.”

Draco frowned at the piece of fish he’d peeled off with his fingers and had held up, poised to put it in his mouth. Anything to not look at Harry and betray himself. That certainly sounded like something his mother would’ve done. At that point in time, all his mother and father had cared about was saving their family, Dark Lord be damned. They’d only joined up with the Death Eaters for the power and status it afforded within the Pureblood circles. Cast their lot with the winners, if you will. He snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yes, well, I imagine if they’d known all that the Death Eaters were on about, they wouldn’t have been so keen to join up in the first place. Thought they were acting in the family’s best interests when they aligned with Voldemort.” At Harry’s quizzical expression, Draco elaborated hesitantly. “Well, you have to understand, the Muggleborns were threatening Pureblood superiority. Your little friend Granger was proof of that, at the time. Spreading the belief that they were inferior was only ever an attempt to remain on top for most Pureblood families. Only those Death Eaters who had nothing to lose – or were completely out of their minds – believed the Dark Lord’s whole ‘tainting the bloodlines’ bit to the letter.”

Harry was looking at him oddly. “I’m sorry, it’s just so strange to hear you say that. You, of all people, telling me that blood purity isn’t important.”

Draco shrugged casually. “What can I say? A lot’s changed. And, truth be told, I never much believed in the extinction of Muggleborns when I was old enough to realize how batty that idea was.” He hit his stride as he built up to his point, beginning to grow more excited as he spoke. “I mean, imagine for me, Harry, a world where Purebloods only procreated with other Purebloods. A few generations worth of inbreeding, and everyone’s genes would be too similar to produce healthy children anymore. It just isn’t feasible, when you think about it.”

Harry was nodding along as Draco spoke. “That makes a lot of sense.”

“Of course it does,” Draco replied haughtily, “I said it.”

Harry laughed, and Draco got the feeling that Harry thought he’d made some sort of funny joke. They finished their lunch slowly, chatting amiably once they’d moved on from the heavier topics. Harry spoke of his time as a professional Quidditch player, which Draco positively loved listening to. Every bloke dreams of playing professional Quidditch, and Draco was no exception. He was envious of Harry, but not maliciously so. Perhaps it was a mark of how far their relationship had come – and Draco’s mental state as well – that he could be jealous of Harry Potter in a way that didn’t come with anger or hate attached to it. 

When it was time for them to get going back up to the castle, Draco found himself disappointed that he would have to relinquish Harry to his teaching duties. As they stood up to leave, Harry took the cloak he’d brought for his companion and draped it over his shoulders carefully. “Looks a bit breezy out there,” he said by way of an excuse, but Draco didn’t miss the way Harry’s fingers lingered on his neck as he fastened the clip. Draco told himself he was only allowing the help because of his fingers, which, though healed, still hurt like mad when he attempted any small, intricate movements, like writing or fastening his own cloak. He was definitely not allowing the help because he was growing to like having Harry dote and fuss over him. 

The two made their way back to the castle together, and Draco was grateful for Harry’s forethought. It was windy out now, which gave the air a slight chill that went straight through him and made his shoulder ache. The pain was lessened significantly because of the thick cloak, and Draco found himself smiling cheerily as he listened to Harry bitch and moan about the sorry state of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

That night, Draco lay awake in his room, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. He’d always been prone to bouts of insomnia, but lately he’d always been drugged up to the point where he was sleeping all night and during portions of the day. However, his insomnia had finally caught up with him, and in spite of the Sleeping Potion he’d taken, his body had somehow fought it off, allowing his mind to keep him up with racing, incessant thoughts. 

He kept replaying the Three Broomsticks over and over in his mind. Harry Potter had been coming on to him, whether or not the man himself had been completely aware of it. There was no question in his mind. One bloke simply did not just call another bloke attractive and then threaten – Draco remembered with a pleasant shiver – to prove his affection. As sorry as it sounded, Draco could not find this revelation completely unwelcome. In fifth year, he’d had an odd sort of crush on Potter, born out of their intense rivalry and constant one-upmanship. Years of trying to get the best of his rival by picking on him, teasing him, and generally always thinking about him in one way or the other gave his hormones – weak from puberty – the perfect object to direct his teenage lust towards. It had been impossible not to notice – after years and years of always noticing Potter – how drastically the boy had changed going into fifth year. He’d become a man, and a handsome one at that. 

Potter had always sort of looked like a puppy who had yet to grow into his paws. Even fifth year, he’d still been sort of gangly, and his hair was always a complete mess. His glasses had been too big for his face, and he’d walked the halls with an awkward gait and a complete lack of confidence. He’d looked like that first year, and he’d looked like that sixth year. It was only when Draco got to see him in the Room of Requirement during seventh year when he’d caught a glimpse of the man the war had turned Harry Potter into, but Draco hadn’t exactly been in the right place or time to admire the change.

Now, though, after all that had happened, Draco could not believe what luck he had struck upon. When it seemed like he had nothing, it turned out that he had Potter. And Potter had really filled out. He was still tall, but he had filled out rather impressively, to put it eloquently. In short, Potter was fucking jacked. His arms bulged with power even when he had simply been resting them on the table in the pub. When they had walked together, his stride had been strong and confident, the way a truly capable man walked. When Draco had knocked to bid him good night a few hours ago, his pectorals were perfectly visible beneath the thin white shirt Potter had been wearing. Draco had a sort of weak spot for Quidditch blokes, but he’d never in his entire life thought that Harry Potter could ever look as tempting as he did now. 

This was not helping him fall asleep even remotely. Draco cursed softly, flipping himself over in frustration. There was nothing he could do but wait it out, and it wasn’t as if he could just make the sleep up. After all, he had no reason to get out of bed in the morning other than he didn’t want Potter to think he was lazy. Stupid Potter and his stupid glib flirting. 

A shout pierced the silence in Draco’s chamber. It was muffled, coming from the outer room. Draco sprung up out of his bed; the screaming continued. He bolted out, flinging open the door to Potter’s common area. The screaming got louder and more frantic, and fear pierced Draco’s heart like a hot knife. Wand in hand – slipped out of the pocket of his pajama pants in a flash – he cast a nonverbal spell to unlock Potter’s bedroom door but was surprised to find it already open. 

In the room, Harry was thrashing around, tangled in his sheets and screaming his head off as if he was dying. Draco hesitated a split second before casting another nonverbal directly at Harry. All at once, every muscle in his body seemed to relax, but the yelling didn’t stop. Only now that he was sure he wasn’t going to get hit, Draco quickly approached Harry, taking his hand and using his other to touch his face and hair in a soothing gesture. Harry’s eyes shot open and he gasped as if coming up for air. 

“You’re alright,” Draco murmured almost melodically, continuing his stroking motion through Harry’s sweat-matted hair, “You’re alright, the nightmare’s over. I’m here, Harry, I’m here with you.”

Harry looked up at him helplessly, slowly pulling himself into a sitting position so he could be at eye level with Draco. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Draco shushed him, thumb now rubbing Harry’s knuckles. “Sod off. We’ve all been there. You’re there when I need you. Let me be here when you need me.”

He was encouraged when Harry didn’t immediately protest that he didn’t need Draco. In fact, he leaned in, allowing Draco to keep massaging the crown of his head. “The Room of Requirement,” he said wearily, so quiet that it was barely above a whisper. Taking a deep, measured breath, he continued, “You fell.”

Draco cocked his head to the side, but he didn’t protest. Harry didn’t need him to give him the third degree. Just to listen. His hands moved to the back of Harry’s neck, fingers gently pressing into the tense muscles. 

Harry took a deep breath, but it didn’t seem to do him any good. “I don’t want to talk,” he said finally, shaking his head. When he looked back at Draco, his eyes were shining in the dim light. “Thanks for checking on me, Draco.”

Draco smiled a bit sadly. “Course I’m gonna check on you, Harry.” He stood up, pulling away his hands and making for the door. “Come get me if you need anything.”

He’d made it halfway to the door when Harry called him back, voice hesitant and small. “Could you-? I mean, if you wouldn’t mind? Staying here, that is.”

Draco turned around at once, heading straight back to Harry’s bedside.


	5. Tact, Subtlety, and Fervent Necking

Draco awoke to find himself alone in Potter’s bed. He was curled up tightly, lying on his side amongst the smooth cotton sheets and thick down of the quilts, perfectly at his leisure. Potter truly had a magnificent bed; Draco was a bit put out that his wasn’t so nearly as nice. Still, being Savior obviously came with some perks that Traitor didn’t.

Draco’s self-deprecating thoughts about being a complete and utter cowardly failure had seemed to be taking a more jesting nature as of late. When he thought about how disgraced and maligned he was, it was sort of with a dark humor that previously used to depress him utterly but now only served to make him snort in a twisted kind of amusement. Draco wasn’t sure if this was progress or furious backpedaling, but at least he was able to face his own reflection in the mirror.

It was with great delay that he roused himself out of Potter’s bed and shuffled off to his own room to dress, but three quarters of an hour later saw him washed, shaved, and dressed in clothes the Castle Elves had laid out for him the previous night. They were new and of a very fine quality. A bit Muggle, but that was the way the Wizard fashions for the younger generations were leaning nowadays. He had on a richly colored emerald dress shirt and charcoal black slacks. The shirt he had left unbuttoned so that the tip of the long scar that ran all the way from neck to navel was just peeking out – he’d always liked to leave shirts open to display his collarbone. A simple bit of magic muddled the harsh rope burns on his neck – he’d performed this particular one so many times, it was just as much a part of his routine as putting on cologne. The nastier scars were still quite visible, but Draco took care to dull their stark appearance, making them appear older rather than fresh. Looking himself over in his bathroom mirror, Draco concluded that while he was still unimpressed with the sallow skin, tired eyes, and dull hair that had fallen so far of their former glory, the clothes looked quite good and fit him well. He was quite nearly passable in this state.

He had just stepped out of the portrait hole in Harry’s office – jumping from the ledge with more grace and less flailing than usual – when he realized that the time was well on its way to being eleven in the morning. Draco shook his head at himself. He really needed to fix his sleep schedule. As it was, he’d missed breakfast and would have to settle for lunch.

There were far too many people in the Great Hall for Draco’s liking, but it was better than he had expected. He strode up to the table where the teachers sat, and was pleased to see that Longbottom was there, reading some sort of periodical and having a sandwich. He sidled up to the seat next to the man and sat, mumbling his hellos to his old schoolmate. At once, Longbottom abandoned his reading and fixed Draco with a welcoming smile. “Good afternoon, Malfoy,” he greeted, “Sleep well?”

“Er, yes,” Draco replied a bit embarrassedly, “And yourself?”

“Fine, thanks,” Longbottom replied, taking a bite of his lunch.

“How are those Vines getting along since yesterday?” he asked carefully as he surveyed the table. A tray laden with an assortment of triangle sandwiches, a bowl of sliced fruit, and a large pitcher of pumpkin juice were all within his reach. Draco snagged a sandwich at random and took a few orange wedges for himself, glancing at Longbottom out of the corner of his eye as he did so to indicate that the man had his attention.

“I was just reading a bit more about them, actually.” He waved the article he had been reading to illustrate. “This information I found isn’t quite in line with what you came up with yesterday, but I can’t argue with results very well, can I? The vines are visibly a bit better, though I reckon it might take a little longer for some of the worst damage to undo itself,” Longbottom reported dutifully, a smile creeping onto his face.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Draco replied, “I could come down later to take a look at them again. Might need to check in every now and then to make sure they stay healthy.”

“Think I can’t handle them?” Longbottom accused, but his amused expression took most of the real venom out of his quip.

“Longbottom, you spent most of our schooldays alternating between blowing up yourself and blowing up your close friends.” The comment rolled off of Draco’s tongue before he could check himself. “Forgive me if I haven’t quite made the mental transition from your past incompetence.”

An odd expression crossed Longbottom’s face. He looked like he wanted to get angry, but something was holding him back. The result was that his entire face pinched in displeasure. “Yes, well, you take all the time you need, Malfoy.”

Draco knew he had bungled things now. He snagged another sandwich and, with a polite farewell, fled the hall with as much grace as he could muster. Trying to be nice to Longbottom would apparently take a bit longer than a few days. Ah, well. So he struck out on that attempted conversation. At least he’d survived his foray into the Great Hall. It was all Potter’s fault, really, suggesting that he and Longbottom could become good friends when Draco had spent his entire life disdaining him and mocking him at every opportunity.

Then again, that’s exactly what his relationship had been with Harry. But now his relationship with Harry was…

… Well, it was certainly different. Draco’s mind flashed to Harry’s chambers, where he’d spent the night sleeping by Harry’s side.

Harry was always so patient, and Draco had finally had the chance to repay the favor. He’d always sort of known about Potter’s nightmares – really, they were infamous around the Castle during their school days. Those mates he shared a dormitory with hadn’t been able to keep their mouths shut, and the whole student body always found out by the end of the day what Potter’s latest night terror had been about. But really, what man who’d been through as much as Harry had didn’t get the odd nightmare here and there? Draco, having lived with the Dark Lord for longer than he cared to put a number on, frequently had very vivid dreams where he relived some of the horrors he had seen, done, and had done to him. When Harry had screamed last night, Draco hadn’t given a second thought to going to him. When Harry asked him to stay, it was almost second nature. He would’ve wanted Harry to do the same for him. Being alone after something like that was awful.

The bell rang and Draco barely had time to flatten himself against the wall as students came pouring out of classrooms. Well-adjusted to it now, but still hating every moment he had to endure waiting for classes to resume, Draco watched all of the students as they moved in throngs with his arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. Here and there he caught little snippets of conversation, but nothing interested him until he heard someone flash by, excitedly mentioning Professor Potter’s Dark Arts class. His eyes widened a fraction. He’d known that the curriculum had been expanded, but it hadn’t occurred to him that Hogwarts was actually teaching the Dark Arts now.

Draco promptly forgot to be anxious about the crowds and stepped out into the flow of foot traffic to follow the students he presumed were heading to Harry’s class. He was gratified when it didn’t take very long to come to a room up on the second floor where a number of students already sat, taking out their books and wands eagerly. Draco raised an eyebrow at this. Potter must teach a very good lesson to have his students looking so excited for class.

After everyone else entered, Draco strode into the room purposefully, feigning his confidence for the moment. He cleared his throat and the room grew deathly silent, all heads turning towards him. Potter, who had been writing something on the blackboard, turned and broke out into a grin so large it made Draco bush faintly. Really, he didn’t have to look so happy to see him all the time.

“Mr. Malfoy!” he exclaimed, which confused the hell out of Draco until he realized that it was for the sake of keeping up a professional appearance, “We’re lucky to have you joining us today! Today’s lesson,” he gestured towards the chalkboard, “Is on subtle magic, and I’m sort of hopeless at it.”

The class laughed, and from this Draco assumed that Harry was sort of lax on classroom formalities in spite of using titles. “Well, you are certainly very fortunate then,” Draco announced pompously, putting on his airs. It would make him more than happy to play along. He strode forward a few steps until he was up at the front of the classroom, still facing Harry. “I happen to be something of an expert on the art of subtle magics.”

Harry’s grin only seemed that much more amused at Draco’s tone. “Well, we’re very happy to have you with us. Class, Mr. Malfoy is an old schoolmate of mine, incredibly smart and talented, and I want you to treat him with much more respect than you give me.”

Draco preened at the praise as the students all verbalized their compliance to Potter’s request. “What sort of subtle magic were you looking to perform, Professor?” he purred, rounding the desk and leaning against the side of it, one hand on his hip and the other on the desk for balance.

Harry stared at him, eyes darkening a fraction before he visibly shook himself out of wherever his mind had decided to go. Draco cocked an eyebrow at him, waiting patiently and perfectly aware of his suggestive tone and stance. However, he was just as good at subtle magic as he was at subtle suggestion. The two nearly went hand-in-hand, anyway.

“First, I wanted to introduce the very basics, but we’re going to work up to attempting minor mental suggestions yet today, I think,” Potter explained. The class broke out into hushed whispers, asking each other if they knew what “mental suggestions” could mean.

Draco’s eyes lit up. “Mental suggestions, Potter, are you sure that’s wise?”

“Course it is. No one in this lot’s gonna be able to pull it off anyway,” Harry teased good-naturedly, issuing the challenge smoothly and ensuring that every single student would be able to do it perfectly soon enough. No one disappointed the Chosen One.

“Really, though,” Draco continued seriously, “That new Headmistress sure is being awfully trusting of her students.” He walked to the front and center of the room to address the class. “Mental Suggestion is a very difficult thing to accomplish successfully, and the subtle arts in general are inherently deceitful, meant to manipulate subjects without their willful consent. It is nothing to joke about, for in the wrong hands – I think we all know of whom I speak – they were a powerful weapon of coercion. Mental Suggestion can be likened to the Imperius curse, but with the crucial difference that Mental Suggestion makes the victim believe it is their decisions, thoughts, and actions. It is virtually undetectable. This is how a lot of the Dark Lord’s followers joined his forces.”

Draco was smugly pleased at the dead silence in the room. He could even feel Harry’s eyes on him from behind, and he could tell by his silence that even he did not know this. “The subtle arts have been practiced almost exclusively by Pureblood wizarding families for centuries. Muggleborns don’t bother with it because it is very difficult to teach someone with no magical background once they are school-age. It’s considerably easier when you’ve grown up with it. In fact, subtle magic is the first type of magic many wizarding children learn, though in a very simple form. Things like adjusting the wind to make your swing go higher, numbing the pain in a tooth that has a cavity, or amplifying your voice to call for your mother.” Draco smirked when he added, “Mental Suggestion was always a bit of a specialty of mine. People don’t realize how easy it is to spoil your child. The thought is already in the parent’s mind. Sometimes, it just requires a little push.”

Harry laughed loudly from behind him. He rounded the desk and clapped a hand on Draco’s shoulder, still chuckling. “And here I thought you were just a daddy’s boy when really, it’s the other way around!”

The whole classroom laughed, and Draco scowled. “Do you want me to help you with your lesson or not?”

Harry was still smiling, but he apologized and motioned for Draco to go on.

“Subtle magic can be used to very minutely alter various things in your environment. Things on or near you are easiest. For example.” Draco closed his eyes and concentrated very hard on the air around him, imagining it as if it were water, thus making it tangible and easier to visualize. Another moment and he felt a very subtle difference in temperature, but it wasn’t enough to garner a reaction from the students. He didn’t usually manipulate his surroundings for anyone other than himself to notice the difference, but the principle was the same. With a bracing intake of breath, he allowed his magic to flow unrestrained for a fraction of a second, just enough to send the temperature plummeting for a short moment. When he opened his eyes back up, the room began to warm up, but the entire classroom – Harry included – was staring at him with awe, or at least mild interest. “Usually,” Draco began, but all of a sudden found himself struggling for breath. He leaned backwards, his bottom hitting the edge of the desk to brace himself before continuing slowly, “Usually, this brand of magic is meant to go undetected, hence the reason it is dubbed subtle. I forced it to show you a noticeable difference.” He paused for a long moment, breathing slowly through his nose. That display really had taken it out of him. “You’ve all probably performed subtle magic at some point in your lives. Ever made something happen when you were particularly emotional? Made something like that happen and had no idea how you did it?”

Everyone in the classroom, Potter included, Draco noticed, was nodding along.

“It takes a conscious effort to make it happen on purpose, but that’s the general idea, anyway. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll let Potter take this over. He is the one getting paid for this, after all.” Draco conceded his position at the front of the classroom. As he moved to switch places with him, Harry put a hand on his elbow to halt him.

“You alright, Draco?” he asked quietly. The students had begun to talk amongst themselves, unwittingly affording them a moment of cover.

“Of course,” Draco replied easily, looking down at Harry, “Sort of takes considerable effort to effect the whole room like I did, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Harry nodded and walked up to address the class, instructing them to open their books. Draco was immensely pleased that he hadn’t pushed the subject. It felt good to have Harry believe him capable after that little stunt he’d pulled the night they went flying. Draco sat behind the desk and observed Potter as he conducted class. He began by making some comments on Draco’s introduction to subtle magic before telling a rather interesting story about how he’d once made an entire sheet of glass vanish, causing a great big snake to be let loose amongst a large gathering of Muggles. Draco was highly amused at the thought and also highly impressed that Potter, who was both a half-blood and had been raised pure Muggle, had managed to vanish a tangible object. Draco had only known a few full-grown adults that could’ve accomplished the same feat.

“Now,” Potter lectured, “Subtle magic as a whole cannot be counted as Dark Magic, but Mental Suggestion techniques are an entirely different matter. As you heard Mr. Malfoy say, it’s meant to control people by putting ideas into their heads and fooling them into thinking that they are their own.”

To put it incredibly simply, Draco scoffed.

“For the obvious reason that this is comparable to Legilimens and the Imperius curse, it falls under the Dark Magic classification,” Potter continued gravely, “and is not to be taken lightly. I am teaching you this so that you are able to arm yourselves with the knowledge and be able to recognize the effects of Mental Suggestion if they are happening to you.”

Draco nodded along, a serious look on his face.

“Mr. Malfoy, would you object to helping me with a demonstration?” he asked, turning and giving him an imploring look.

Draco nodded his consent, rising from his seat and moving once more to the front of the room to stand next to Harry.

“We’re going to perform an experiment that you all will attempt to replicate today,” Harry continued once Draco had joined him, “I’m going to leave the room so that I will have no way of knowing what is discussed. You are going to give Mr. Malfoy something you want me to say or do. When I come back in, Mr. Malfoy is going to make me do it. I will make no attempts to resist.” Harry smiled at them, “I have the utmost faith in your imaginations.” He strode from the room, calling back over his shoulder, “Please make it worth Mr. Malfoy’s while.”

“You lot better come up with something good to make him do,” Draco ordered them cheekily, “I don’t often get a free shot at Professor Potter over there, so I’d quite like to enjoy myself.”

Immediately hands were raised and ridiculous things were shouted, the students arguing amongst themselves over what to make their teacher do. Eventually, Draco pointed at a particularly ill-behaved boy sitting near the back corner of the classroom, who promptly shouted that they should make Professor Potter flip his desk. Draco mulled this over for a moment until someone else pointed out that it would be funnier if he did a dance on top of the desk. Draco informed them that their ideas had merit but lacked creativity. Someone in the front row suggested they make him say something that was so rude and offensive that Draco had to reprimand him. Eventually, they settled on having him do a handstand and announce to the entire classroom that he fancied Headmistress McGonagall. Not the greatest embarrassing line Draco had ever heard, but these children obviously lacked a prominent Slytherin figure in their lives, so he let it slide.

Harry was summoned back into the classroom then, and the moment he stepped through the door, Draco’s piercing gaze was locked onto his eyes. The two drew near, and they stood together in the middle of the classroom, staring. Harry’s eyes appeared to be perfectly in focus, that sharp green gaze regarding him calmly, but then, it wasn’t Imperio that he was attempting. As Draco concentrated on what he wanted Harry to say, he found himself slipping slightly as he glimpsed a ghost of Harry’s thoughts. Whenever he attempted to influence someone’s mind, he could usually get a decent look at the thoughts they were already thinking. Draco was startled to see that he saw himself reflected in Harry’s thoughts. Worried he would lose his concentration, he redoubled his efforts, finding Potter to be a particularly difficult egg to crack.

Moments later, however, Harry broke eye contact with him and addressed the class. “I have something to tell you all.” And then he abruptly folded over, crouching before pushing his weight onto his hands and straightening into a perfectly controlled handstand. “I think Headmistress McGonagall is the finest specimen of woman I have ever seen in my entire life!” he declared comically, unable to contain his laughter. “Oh, Merlin, that’s what you lot came up with?”

“I told them it was trite,” Draco drawled, feigning an easy air as he strolled back towards Potter’s desk and resumed his recovery position, “Professor Potter, you weren’t supposed to put up quite that much of a fight, remember?”

“Sorry,” Harry apologized, still doing a handstand in the middle of the classroom, “I sort of have trouble letting my guard down anymore.”

Draco nodded. They’d both fought off their fair share of mind-invading spells during the war.

“It isn’t like you aren’t aware of what you’re doing or even that you’re doing it against your will, necessarily,” Potter informed his class as he let his legs fall forward, gracefully returning to an upright position, “I still had to make the conscious decision to tell you lot that I fancied the Headmistress, but Mr. Malfoy put the thought into my mind. And right before I said it, it was one of the most convincing thoughts I’ve ever had. But like I said, I could tell that he was the one giving me the thought because it wasn’t a thought I’d ever had before.” He surveyed his class as he walked towards Draco, still talking, “It doesn’t take away your power to choose, but the caster presents the idea in your mind so convincingly that it seems like the only logical choice at the time.”

“Well said,” Draco commented.

Harry nodded his acknowledgment. “Now, we’re all going to break into groups of two to try it out. Don’t worry if you don’t get it today because we’ll be doing this for the next week or so until I think we’re fit to move on.”

He moved up to the board to write some key points of the theory behind it, and Draco remained propped up against the desk, observing the efforts of the Hogwarts students with a mixture of wonder and utter disbelief in his eyes. Never in all his life did he imagine they would actually be teaching the Dark Arts at a school that had basically been synonymous with the Order of the Phoenix. It amazed him at how progressive Hogwarts really was, what with all of the anti-Pureblood sentiments circulating within society. Though he was amazed, Draco had to admit that he wasn’t overly surprised. Hogwarts had also taught Muggle Studies during a period of time when being Muggleborn meant having a price on your head.

When the bell rang and all of the students exited the classroom, chattering animatedly about the various ridiculous suggestions they’d come up with, Harry shook Draco’s hand, thanking him for helping with the lesson.

“Truth be told,” Harry confided, “I’d told McGonagall that I wasn’t fit to teach the Dark Arts practicals or theories. What do I know about the Dark Arts besides how to fight it? And that’s Defense Against the Dark Arts, besides. But she said I was the best candidate for the job.”

“You do a fair job, Harry,” Draco assured him.

“But clearly not as good as you would do,” Harry angled, and it was only then that Draco saw Harry’s intent. He promptly pushed himself up and made for the door, Harry hot on his heels. “Wait up, Draco! Come on, hear me out!”

Draco spun around, disbelief plain on his face. “Did you mean to insinuate that I should teach the Dark Arts to students here? Did you really just suggest that I should apply for this position?”

Harry rubbed the back of his head, a clear nervous gesture. “Well, yeah, clearly you’d be brilliant, and you have a lot of knowledge to offer.”

Draco brought his brief I come about that knowledge, Scarhead? By being a Death Eater. By growing up in a flare of anger down and checked it. Potter truly didn’t see the problem with his logic. “And how did Pureblood household with other Death Eaters. You think anyone, especially in these times, would want their child taught by the likes of me?”

“The likes of whom? Sorry, don’t mean to interrupt, but I have to teach a class in here soon, and I need to set up,” called a woman from the doorway.

Draco didn’t turn around immediately. Instead, he watched Potter smile at whomever had just entered the room. His insides had turned to ice. That voice. “Sorry, Madeline, we were just leaving,” Harry called over Draco’s shoulder cheerfully. He moved to sidestep Draco, but Draco’s hand, fisted tightly in his shirt, stopped him. He looked into Draco’s pinched face and saw that he was staring at him with wild terror in his eyes. He mouthed Harry’s name silently, unable to do anything else.

“Who’s with you, Potter?” the woman asked cheerily, and by the sound of her footsteps, she was walking towards them, but Draco refused to look away from Harry for a moment. He couldn’t.

“Sorry, Madeline,” Harry said quickly, “We really have to go.” With expert evasion, Harry used one arm to spin Draco while the other latched onto his hand and spirited him from the room in an instant, flinging the door closed behind them with entirely more force than was necessary. Draco didn’t care. All Draco cared about was putting distance between them and that Madeline person. Harry seemed to understand, forcing himself and Draco through the crowd of students so deftly that Draco was almost certain the students were parting for them as they passed.

Eventually they stopped, and Draco found himself leaning against the wall of a tiny alcove behind the stairs on the fourth floor of the castle, fighting for breath. Harry was standing by the far wall, watching for anyone who might be approaching, but the bell had rang and the hallways were deserted. Draco’s knees gave out, and he sank to the floor. He put his head in his hands.

“What’s going on, Draco? Please?” Harry pleaded then, kneeling down next to him on the floor.

“That woman. Madeline.” Draco took a shuddering breath. “She was there. She was in Bordeaux.”

Harry’s complexion turned white with shock. “Did she recognize you?” he asked immediately, fearfully.

Draco looked up at him, blowing out a puff of air that ruffled his bangs. The scars on his forehead became visible for a split second when he did. “If she didn’t get a look at my face, she might not have. I didn’t get a good look at hers, that’s for sure. Didn’t want to. But I know her voice.”

Harry’s eyes darkened angrily, eyebrows furrowed. “She’s been my coworker since I came here. Replaced Charity Burbage as the Muggle Studies professor. She always seemed so sweet, so polite.”

“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Draco replied, voice tired.

“She might not be the only one in the castle, Draco,” Harry said, something like horror creeping into his tone.

Draco’s face drained of whatever semblance of color still remained. His voice shook even more than his hands did as he spoke. “I’ve been wandering around for days now. I never took care to disguise myself. Hogwarts was supposed to be safe.”

“Hogwarts is safe,” Harry insisted, but it sounded a bit hollow. Then, he found his strength. “Hogwarts will always be safe for you as long as you stay with me, Draco. Nothing’s going to happen to you if you’re with me.”

“I want to believe you,” Draco admitted glumly, “You have a fairly impressive track record of saving people, Potter, so I want to believe you.”

“Hey,” he protested, putting a hand on the side of Draco’s pale face, “It’s Harry, remember?”

Draco nodded a little. “Trust is sort of a hard thing for me to come by nowadays, Harry.”

* * *

 

The first thing Harry did after making sure Draco made it back to his office alright was march himself straight to McGonagall’s office, practically shouting the password at the gargoyle in his haste to see the Headmistress. McGonagall was so engrossed in what she was doing at her desk that she jumped upon Harry’s abrupt entrance.

To McGonagall, the noise reminded her a bit too much of a Weasely Whiz-bang for her comfort. Thus, she jumped and ducked when her door was practically slammed off of its hinges by a quite obviously manic Harry Potter.

“McGonagall, something terrible’s happened!” Harry spat out, crossing the floor quickly and slamming his hands down on her desk, “Hogwarts’ security’s been compromised.”

McGonagall, to her credit, managed to place her quill back into its inkpot before rushing to her feet and to action. “Details,” she barked out, snatching up her quill and moving to the cabinet that held her various Dark detectors.

“The terrorist group that held Draco captive in Bordeaux have infiltrated the castle, at least since the beginning of term,” Harry dutifully reported, wand in hand though he had no reason to use it, “How long has Miranda Madeline been teaching here?”

McGonagall stopped short, an odd metal orb with dozens of knobs and rings crisscrossing along it palmed in her right hand. “Professor Madeline? Heavens, it can’t be, though.”

Harry’s stare was intense as he nodded gravely. “Draco confirmed it. He recognized her when she walked in after my class ended.”

McGonagall nodded her acceptance gravely, beginning to turn the rings on the orb. “She’s been here since the end of the war. I’ll alert the Order and the Ministry. We won’t be able to do anything until we get agents here to investigate. Until then, Potter, I want you to protect Mr. Malfoy. Act as his bodyguard until we can remove the threat. He doesn’t go anywhere without you from now on.” McGonagall continued fiddling with the device, relaying a coded message that would be transmitted to the others like it.

Needing no second bidding, Harry swept from the room.

* * *

 

Afternoon found Harry pacing the floor of the common room, every few seconds casting his gaze over to Draco, who was staring blankly into the roaring fireplace. It wasn’t cold in the room, exactly, but Draco had insisted they light it.

“We can assume that, even if they are aware of your presence here, they can’t make a move right now,” Harry was saying quickly as he paced. Draco was trying his hardest to pay attention, eyes unfocused as he thought along in time to Harry’s rhythm. “Or else they would’ve done so. You’ve been about on your own somewhat, so they would’ve had opportunity. And loads of students know you’re here – you’ve assisted with two classes already – but it isn’t like we were ever attempting to hide your presence here. Honestly, we hadn’t imagined they would have already infiltrated us.”

“I’d sort of wondered why I’ve been allowed to roam about the castle, given that I am currently a target,” Draco mused without much emotion.

“McGonagall and Kingsley both had designs to have you teach here,” Harry explained simply, “They thought it would send a positive message. You know, that prejudice shouldn’t have a place in our world anymore.”

Draco nodded along to Harry’s words. “Which would’ve dealt a blow to the Sympathetics because they’re only feeding off of the post-war fear. Such a politically important place like Hogwarts hiring a former Death Eater and a prominent member of pureblood society would’ve sent quite the message indeed.” Draco was actually quite impressed with that strategy. Leading by example was always the strongest method of coercion, in his opinion.

“I reckon she’ll still want to go through with that plan,” Harry surmised, “We’ll just have to keep you well-guarded now that we know the Sympathetics are in the castle. She’s already contacted the Ministry and the Order. They would barely be able to make a move as it is, but once the castle is swarming with agents, there’ll be no way.”

Draco wasn’t fully aware of it, but he’d began to tune Harry out, only catching snippets of phrases. He was attempting to sort out his feelings. On one hand, there was the crippling fear brought on by the still-fresh memories of Bordeaux, the lingering physical and mental pains of days of agonizing torture. On the other hand, when he thought of the Manor, of his friends, and of his family, he felt an emotion much stronger than the feeling of fear. Draco wanted revenge, longed deep within his heart to make the people who had brought him down bleed from everywhere he could hit them hardest. His body may have been broken and bruised until he barely recognized himself, but his mind and spirit had only been weakened. The losses he had sustained had taken an extreme emotional toll, but Draco had only begun to realize that he was beginning to draw strength from a new source.

Harry gave him hope when he’d had none left. Harry had vowed to help him reclaim the Manor. Harry had sworn he would be safe with him. Draco may have bent to Harry’s influence, but he would be damned before he laid down and hid while others did his work for him. He would accept their help but not their complete transfer of responsibility.

“Harry,” he spoke suddenly, standing.

Harry seemed startled that Draco had interrupted him. “Yeah?”

“I think I’ll take you up on the offer you made me yesterday afternoon when you said you’d train me,” he enunciated proudly and calmly, drawing himself up to full height. He was tall, just about as tall as Harry, but now was the first instance since he arrived at Hogwarts that he really felt like he could measure up to the other man in any regard. “I am grateful for all that Headmistress McGonagall, the Ministry, the Order, and most notably yourself are willing to do for me, but I cannot sit by and let you bear the full weight of this situation.” Harry didn’t seem to follow him completely, so he dialed his language back to something a little easier to understand. “I want to help. I want to fight my own fight. I want to make them pay for what they’ve done.”

Something shifted in Harry’s facial expression as he gravitated towards Draco. It was especially noticeable in those expressive green eyes, dancing with a light that spoke of an inner ferocity. “We’ll make them pay, alright,” he said simply, but his voice was so rough, so perfectly deep and strong that Draco couldn’t suppress a shiver as hot lust pulsed through him. Harry noticed, and he must have seen something in Draco’s eyes that gave him an idea as to where his thoughts had gone. The two continued looking at each other, and damn if it wasn’t the most erotic thing, standing there staring at Harry Potter with sheer power and determination radiating off of every inch of his body. Harry obviously felt it, too, if the way his eyes were slowly roaming down Draco’s body. Then, his eyes snapped back up to Draco’s face, which was when he stepped forward carefully, with measured slowness until their lips were mere breaths apart.

“This is escalating,” Draco warned hesitantly, not daring to raise his voice above a whisper. The moment felt sacred and fragile, almost as if speaking to loud would cause it to shatter.

“Are you going to let it?” Harry asked seriously.

It had sounded like he was asking for permission, but judging by the hand slowly sliding up his spine and up to the back of his neck, Draco wasn’t entirely sure that Potter would stop even if he asked, which he had no inclination of doing in the first place. In lieu of a verbal response, Draco smirked at Harry in a way he hadn’t since they were sixth years. Harry made a noise of approval low in his throat and dragged Draco’s head forward, their lips meeting in a hard crush that had Draco moaning the moment Harry’s teeth sunk into his lip.

Kissing Potter was beyond good. It was everything Draco would expect from his former nemesis. It was like their old rivalry had been kindled again as Harry pushed Draco backwards with his mouth while pulling him close with one hand behind his neck and the other right on his ass. When that hand gave a sudden squeeze, Draco’s jaw dropped, and Harry took full possession of the opportunity to ram his tongue with delightful force into the other’s mouth. Draco met him halfway, frantically using his own tongue to lavish Harry’s as well as he could. Potter was overwhelming him quickly, pushing him back, back, back and then down onto the armchair, following him down and straddling his thighs.

Harry was lamentably no longer able to keep his hands where Draco so desperately wanted them in their current position, but the noises Potter was making while his hips danced across Draco’s lap fully made up for it. Draco’s hands were all over Harry, up the back of his shirt and clawing at the well-formed muscles with his fingertips. Draco wasn’t much for making noise, but Harry made up for that completely with the way he was moaning and whining at his touches. An experimental tug at the hair near the nape of his neck elicited the most delicious sound Draco had ever heard in his life. He threaded one hand through the thick, black locks and pulled hard.

Harry lost himself completely. Head thrown back, he made a choked noise in the back of his throat that was incredibly sexy to Draco. Encouraged, he kept up the pressure of one hand on Harry’s ass and the other knotted in his hair, squeezing and pulling in the hopes of driving Harry to near insanity. It fairly worked. Harry surged forward and latched on to Draco’s neck where it met his shoulder with his mouth to stifle the wanton noises pouring out of it, hips slamming down while Draco’s rose up to meet them.

This is happening. This is actually happening to me right now. Draco’s thoughts could only focus on two things in that moment: disbelief that Harry was doing what he was doing, and dear Lord, Potter, do that again. Harry was absolutely incredible, the way he acted like he couldn’t get enough. He kissed a path back up to Draco’s mouth slowly and deliberately, making Draco squirm. It was perfect, their teeth clacking together and bodies practically molded together, slick with sweat that Draco was certain would ruin his new shirt and certainly not caring in the slightest.

“You,” Harry gasped out in between fierce kisses, sliding their lips together and following the motion quickly with a light flick of his tongue that drove Draco’s mind straight out of his head.

“You,” Draco agreed breathlessly, fingers impatiently working at the buttons of Harry’s dress shirt. Pain broke through the haze of lust settled around his mind and brought his consciousness to sharp clarity. He couldn’t undo Potter’s buttons, his clumsy fingers locking up at his efforts to force them into the precise movements. Panic began in the corners of his mind and rapidly took over his desire as the chief reason for his haste. He needed to do this, needed Harry closer, if only he could undo the blasted buttons.

Harry’s hands closed over his, stopping him. Draco looked up, expression betraying his helpless state. Harry was looking down at him with understanding, a gentle smile on his face as he took Draco’s hands and placed them on his own hips. He drew back then, and Draco watched with fascination as Harry, maintaining full, scorching eye contact, began to undo his own buttons. Idly, Draco’s hands began rocking Harry’s hips, mesmerized by Harry’s stare. When he was finished, he lowered his arms and allowed his shirt to slip to the floor. Draco stared openly, hands sliding up and over his defined abdominals to his pectorals, covered in a thin down of fine black hairs, and up to the juncture where his shoulder met his biceps. From there he hesitated, unsure of what to do next.

Harry’s hands rose to Draco’s neck and then slowly, questioningly to the top button on his shirt. Draco’s eyes widened and froze for a moment before he shook his head, one short motion that he feared might ruin the entire thing. But Harry just nodded solemnly and, putting his hands behind Draco’s head, slowly pulled him back in to kiss him. Against his lips, he mumbled, “nothing you don’t want, love”. The switch from frantic, passionate necking to the gentleness of Harry’s attentions now had Draco reeling pleasantly at the stark contrast in style. Their kissing was now slow, purposeful, and for whole seconds they merely placed their lips together, feeling and breathing each other. Harry stroked his hands through Draco’s hair and along his neck with purposeful slowness. Draco moved his hands up along Harry’s sides and played across his broad back. The feel of his skin was addicting, warm and soft and so very unlike how he’d expected Potter to feel. This side of him was unexpected but very much welcome. Draco felt amazing, sitting there with Potter on top of him, worshipping him with his gentle caresses and pleasured humming.

Hands cupped his jawline, and Harry broke off a particularly drawn-out kiss to simply stare at him. This close, Draco was struck with just how green Harry’s eyes really were. He could even see flecks of something darker like a shade of indigo in them. Draco wondered what Harry could be seeing in him. His question was soon answered, as Harry tilted his head down and kissed his forehead, leaving his lips against the scars there to mumble, “Beautiful, Draco.”

Draco blushed deeply. “I don’t know if I’d-,” he began hesitantly.

“Don’t,” Harry interrupted, putting a finger to Draco’s lips as he drew back to look into his eyes again, “Don’t.” With a cheeky smile, he added, “I’m entitled to my opinion whether you agree with me or not.”

“Fair enough,” Draco conceded with a shrug, still blushing but attempting to brush off the compliment.

Harry rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

* * *

 

Professor Madeline sat in her office late into the night, watching her fireplace closely. She was deep in thought as she stared, and paid no attention to the clock, which had just struck midnight.

Moments later, the flames in the fireplace rose higher and abruptly changed to a brilliant green. Madeline strode over and kneeled by it, watching with rapt attention as a face appeared. A woman’s face appeared in the fireplace, an older woman with tightly braided hair and a mean look about her face.

“You’d best tell me quickly what you mean by requesting a call with me at this hour,” she demanded promptly.

Madeline frowned. “Of course. I just thought it might interest you that I’ve found your lost key.”

The woman could not conceal her very obvious interest. “Oh, now this is interesting. Here I thought I’d lost it in Bordeaux.”

Madeline nodded. “As did I. But it’s here, in the castle. I think it would be best if you would come fetch it. Bring along some friends for your visit, too. I haven’t seen everyone in a while.”

A nod from the head in the fireplace. “That sounds like a lovely time.” The woman was smirking now, an ugly look that gave the harshness of her features a cruel, twisted look.

The two women nodded at each other with a certain finality, and the Floo connection was extinguished.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated! Please let me know what you think so that I can do a better job on future installments! :)


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